


Captain's Log (The Starship Magnus)

by thelairoevie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alien Helen, Alien Michael, Alien Peter Lukas, Alternate Universe - Star Trek, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Borg Prentiss, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), F/F, F/M, Half Klingon Daisy, Half Vulcan Jon, I quote a few songs, It's mentioned in 1 (one) line, M/M, Space Pirate Nikola Orsinov, The Mechanisms - Freeform, Tribbles (Star Trek), Vulcan Basira, [Redacted] Elias Bouchard, brief mention - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelairoevie/pseuds/thelairoevie
Summary: Based off of luftballons99's USS Magnus art!Jonathan Sims, the half-vulcan captain of the USS Magnus is on a mission to locate the lost ship of Captain Robert Smirke. With his crew of Tim, Sasha, Martin, Basira and Daisy, they will have to face such terrors as tribbles, clowns, computer worms and more.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Helen | The Distortion & Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, as a one-off
Comments: 205
Kudos: 509





	1. Friska

> “Captain’s log, stardate 4220.4, The USS Magnus, under Captain Jonathan Sims. We have been sent out into the under-explored Chi 14 region. Our mission-- to locate evidence of the USS Millbank, or its captain, one Robert Smirke. I have been provided with a small crew, composed of First Officer Stoker, who was also my choice of pilot, Lieutenant Commander James, my engineer, Commander Tonn’er, a weapons officer and Lieutenant Basira, in communications. Oh, and Martin, I suppose. But I believe he will be out from underfoot in medbay.” 

The captain, lean and sharp, straightened his uniform and sat up further in his seat before continuing.

> “Today we depart from K7 Bar, where the crew has been ordered to assemble from halfway across the quadrant. We will be leaving the station as soon as all are onboard. End log.” 

With a sigh, he rose from the captain's chair, with its angles that he would have to grow used to. After stopping once again to readjust his uniform collar, he strode off of the bridge and down the hall to the transporter room, where he would await his crew’s arrival 

Lieutenant Commander Sasha James was already waiting. “Morning, Captain. Looks like Tim is ready to board.” 

Tim had been to the academy with Jon, although they had not been close. Jon was young for a Vulcan officer, much too young , but most of the people who were at the academy were human and had no clue. Tim was originally slated for leadership, so it was odd that he had signed on as a pilot. Still, Jon made sure to appoint him as first officer the minute he saw his name on the roster. It was only logical to appoint someone he knew he could trust. 

The man himself greeted them with a charming grin. Only someone as ridiculous as Tim would pose on the beaming platform, as if it were a personal stage. 

“Boss! Great to see you again!” Tim opened his arms wide for a hug, but thankfully moved past Jon to get to Sasha. “And the lovely Sasha! Oh, how have I survived this long without you?” 

She giggled and returned his embrace. “I haven’t a clue. None of the engineers at your old post good enough for your standards?” 

“Not even close. They don’t even get my jokes! Or know how to handle their Earth vodka.” 

Before Sasha could continue on the frivolous banter, Jon cleared his throat. “Lieutenant.” 

She stepped back to the console as Tim took his bags and left to find his quarters. “Looks like the Doc is going to be late,” she commented. “Two ladies, a Vulcan and a Klingon are looking to board.” 

“That would be Commander Tonn’er and Lieutenant Basira. Beam them up.” Jon’s back impossibly straightened out by another millimeter. 

The women were both stern looking, and were clearly already acquainted. Basira was a proper Vulcan, unlike Jon, who did his best to hide the evidence of his human mother. She moved with a cold, almost disinterested grace that would have been feminine if it wasn’t so severe. Behind her, Commander Tonn’er towered over the rest. She had harsh facial features and broad sounders that would have made her intimidating on her own, but she had to crane her neck down to view the captain, who was now well aware that between her and Sasha’s greater than average height, he looked minuscule. 

He remembered he was supposed to greet them. “Commander To--”

She interrupted him with a low growl “That’s Daisy to you. Don’t soil my name with your foreign tongue.” 

“...Right. Commander Daisy, Lieutenant Basira. Welcome aboard the Magnus.”

* * *

He didn’t stick around to wait for their medical officer, a man who he had met once, back when he was ‘Commander’ and not ‘Captain’ Jon. Martin was an overbearing, clumsy and overly emotional man that Jon was reluctant to work with. He was too _human_ for comfort. The fact that he was late on the first day did not help this impression. 

Instead, Jon returned to the helm to plot out their course to their first stop, the edge of an asteroid belt where the last communique from The Millbank was sent. Daisy and Tim would have to work together to clear a path, as it was full of difficult-to-detect debris and was largely uncharted. 

“It’s gonna be a rough one,” Tim commented when they pulled the map up. “We’re going to have to be careful to maintain the weight distribution of the ship, probably strap everything down.” 

Daisy grunted her assent. “This chart, it’s not as recent as the ones on Klingon ships. Or other Starfleet ships. Who was it that outfitted this vessel?”

Jon fought the tugging urge to form a scowl on his face. “Gertrude Robinson was in charge of the USS Magnus. She’s responsible for the computer, the databases and all updates to it’s design. I have never questioned the intelligence or decisions of the Federation’s policy, save for the call to appoint _her_.”

Tim laughed. “Well, I’m sure Basira can have a new chart sent from the guys at K7 before we depart. The Doc’s not here yet, so we can’t leave, anyways.”

“Make it so, Tim,” Jon replied, curt. “Because of the minor delay, I will need to change a few of our plans. Nothing worth reporting to Admiral Bouchard, but important nonetheless.” He stalked into his personal office, located to the side of the bridge.

Many captains kept their offices comfortable and full of personal objects. Jon was not like them. Save for a chair for himself at the obligatory desk, and a chair for a guest, it hardly looked like his office was to accommodate people at all. As if to make up for this, from floor to ceiling the walls had been outfitted with shelves, and neatly arranged with row after row of vintage and synthetic-paper books, all nonfiction accounts of science and history. Since beginning the collection in his childhood, Jon had read each and every one. 

Lounging in his own chair, he began to rifle through the general itinerary. There wasn’t anything to actually be _done_ in terms of the change in schedule, but his plans were arranged to be impeccable, and he loathed the change. Noncommittally, he looked through the Gertrude map. 

Daisy had been right, it was not up to date. Furthermore, Jon wasn’t even sure it was ever accurate. Sure, the basic features of the quadrant were in their respective areas, but he was sure there were some liberties taken to what should and should not be listed. For example, there is no way that there would be a star there, much less a star with such a strangely named planet. In fact, there was a whole star system that didn’t...

The door slid open with a whoosh. There stood Doctor Martin Blackwood, in his medical blue, and he looked as soft and ruddy and clumsy as ever. He didn’t offer Jon much notice, just glanced furiously around the room. 

“Hey, sorry. You haven’t seen a small fuzzy thing, have you?”

Against his better wishes Jon felt a flurry of emotions that he could never justify to work out burst through his chest and cloud his mind. He might have been angry, or offended. Confusion was definitely present. He sputtered. 

“I’m-- Sorry, what?” 

“Uh- a -a small fuzzy creature. A t-tribble.” Martin moved closer to Jon, and he instinctively sank himself further back into the chair. The man simply leaned to the side to look behind him. 

“I-In general, or..?” 

It was completely unacceptable how Jon felt his face heat up as Martin let out a little laugh. “N-no on the Magnus!”

That was enough to break him out of his initial surprise. Jon sat up straight and felt his brow furrow before he smoothed it into a precise blank look. “Why would there be a _tribble_ on the _USS Magnus_?”

“Oh, cause, well--I may’ve... b-brought him?” Jon could practically smell the nerves of this man, as his sweaty hands began to fidget. He did not relent, as for the second time in less than five minutes, he found himself in that state of shocked outrage.

“What, why?!” 

Martin jumped, clearly not having expected him to shout. “Well, I didn’t mean for him to get loose. Tribbles are-- well they’re useful _therapeutically_ and I, uh, had one in a little cage to bring onboard and then--”

Jon let out a sigh. 

“He’s really clever, ya’know and just sort of… got past me…” Martin trained off, his eyes searching the room frantically. 

“If you do not resolve this situation, you could be replaced at the nearest station.” 

“Oh. Yes, probably.” Martin replied, still distractedly gazing around the room. After a pause, the words seemed to sink in. “ _Oh_! Oh! Yes! Right, yes, sorry, uh, I’ll- sorry!” He scrambled out the door to Jon’s office and onto the bridge. From a greater distance, Jon could hear him utter another “Sorry!” as he shuffled away. 

“Right. That’s... not ideal.”

* * *

Martin’s animal business aside, the ship departed without issue. Jon spent the day productively observing from the bridge, and familiarizing himself with the nuances of this specific crew. Tim was, as expected, a highly capable pilot. Basira had provided them with not one but two up-to-date maps, one that included scientific readings that would prove useful with navigation, and another, human, that marked resources that were suspected to exist. They had a lengthy conversation on things they would read. Jon thought he and Basira would likely get along. It was… pleasing. Sasha was the best in business, as usual. As for Daisy, he--

“Captain, Message from starfleet. Priority channel. It’s Admiral Bouchard.” Basira interrupted his thoughts. “He wants you to report your status.”

“Ah. I’ll take it in my office. Thank you.” Jon responded. He tugged lightly at the end of his sleeve. 

* * *

“Captain Jon?”

“Jon here.” Most Vulcans did not go by a family name. It was difficult to pick when he joined starfleet. Weighing the options of ‘Jonny’, ‘Jonathan’ and somehow even worse ‘Sims’, eventually left him with short, plain Jon. 

Bouchard’s angular face appeared on the monitor. “Captain! So good to see you. I heard you finally got off the ground. Tell me, how is my ship?” 

“ _My_ ship is back on schedule. We will arrive at the asteroid belt by tomorrow. Sasha wanted to take some scans and samples, and then we’ll push through to the likely locations of Smirke’s ship.” 

“Excellent. And how are you, Captain?”

“I’m _adequate_. Everything is running well, and I’m completely capable of doing what this mission asks for. I believe that is all you need from me.” Jon was already itching to end the call. 

“I wouldn’t dare doubt your abilities. I’m just making sure you’re taking good care of my ship’s captain and crew. I don’t need to remind you how important Smirke’s research could be for us in Starfleet. The prospects of his research, the lengths forward it might bring mankind, and others with it of course, as a whole…do give your best efforts. I would hate to see this fail.”

“You don’t need to remind me, Admiral.”

“Oh, please, Captain. We all know that title goes to your dear pet. Call me Elias.” 

“Right. Elias.” 

Elias gave him a smile that seemed too wide for the intensity of his eyes. Jon repressed the shiver that threatened to run along his back.

“Do keep in touch, Captain. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you. I have great expectations.”

“I will do my best, Elias. Jon out.” 

Once the screen cut out, he sighed out the frown that tugged at his lips. “Now, that’s just lovely.”

The intercom sounded. 

“Captain Jon. Sensors are picking up an unmarked ship rapidly closing on us,” Basira’s level voice warned him.

“It looks like a nasty one, Jon! You should be up here to see this,” Tim called out from near her.

“Go to red alert.”

* * *

The ship was, without a doubt, an oddity. Its hull was painted with strips of red and white, and it had no designation or immediately obvious planet of origin. The only marking on the side was a painting of an ancient instrument: a calliope. It had one open channel, and as far as Basira could tell, it streamed an endless repeat of a song played on an old earth organ. No response to being hailed, just an ominous, steady approach. The music filled the bridge as Basira attempted again and again to make contact. 

“Maybe we should fire a warning shot. See if they get more talkative,” Daisy suggested.

“You’re not serious,” Barisa replied. 

“Let’s not instigate any fighting. Keep trying to make contact, Basira.” Jon instructed. The ship was unsettling in a way he could not put into words. “What’s their position?”

Tim looked down at his console. “Less than a hundred kilometers.” 

The awful song repeated again, this time faster. Jon fought the way his jaw clenched, cleared his throat. “Basira, broadcast me.” 

She raised an arching eyebrow at him, but complied. “You’re on.”

“This is Captain Jon of the Starship Magnus. You have been following us for some minutes now. Please respond.” 

With a sudden, jarring silence the music stopped. 

There was static, and then a masked face appeared on the main screen. It was entirely white, save for a painted on, clownish smile. 

“Well hello, Captain! I’m… Well. My father called me Nikola, and I guess I took his last name! Nikola Orsinov.” A feminine voice sang through the comms. “I’m here to offer you some information. And entertainment!” 

“...Right. Well, we’re not exactly in the market for that. We’re part of a vital investigation, and really must be on our way.” It was the truth. 

“Nonsense, Captain. You won’t reach anything interesting for at least another 16 hours! You won’t even have to stop your ship, I’ve got an excellent pilot. You have me aboard, watch my little show, and I promise to tell you about the other ship! You know, the last one marked _Starfleet_ to come through here. I’m sure you’ll be interested to know exactly what happened.” Nikola’s mask hid any expression. The only indication of a smile was in the constant, artificial laugh that seemed to come through the screen. 

Jon looked at Tim, who was clearly uneasy, and then at Basira, indifferent as always. The other ship was clearly a threat, and the first day of their mission did not need to include a fight. It was obvious Nikola could not be trusted. On the other hand, the intel offer was something Jon could not ignore. It would be irresponsible to pass up something that could be directly related to Robert Smirke, especially given how little they knew. “I suppose if you won’t slow us down, I would like your information.” Prepare to beam yourself and one other aboard. I will not allow anyone else.” Daisy was clearly enough to handle two troublemakers if need be. 

“Hmm. I’ll agree to your terms captain. Please me, and this will be a mutually beneficial arrangement indeed!” The masked face tilted playfully to the side, and then cut out with an abrupt switch. It was once again replaced with the grating song. 

“Sasha, please report to the transporter room. We are apparently expecting guests.”

* * *

Martin was not having a good first day aboard _The Magnus._ First, he had gotten lost on the space station, then he missed lunch, and now he was desperately trying to squeeze his shoulders into a gap in the wall next to the engine room. He wasn’t exactly the smallest guy on board, but Martin was pretty certain that if he bothered Jon again, he would die in place and get dropped off at the next nearest asteroid. Maybe not in that order. 

He let out a groan as he heard the telltale trill of his infuriating little friend. “Oh, come on-- Come here, little buddy.” He made the ticking noise at the front of his mouth that worked so well on cats. 

Predictably, the tribble did not come. 

Behind him, a friendly voice hummed. “Doctor? Is that you?”

Martin strained and wigged to escape the small space. His shirt rolled up as he did so, and he had to hurriedly readjust his uniform. 

“Sasha! Hi, um. Would you mind giving me a hand here? There’s, well, my tribble is in there. I need to get him back in his box before Jon kills me.” Martin asked, nervously. She was more likely to fit in the vent than himself, with her slender shoulders. On the other hand, she barely knew him. 

“Oh! Sure, I squeeze in there all the time, to make repairs. What is a tribble, anyways?” She bent over, careful to keep her skirt pulled down. “Oh, these little things? That’s so cute!”

Martin watched with relief as she stretched, and then gracefully slithered out, cradling something gently in her arms. 

“You didn’t tell me there were so many.” Sasha cooed. “You’ve really been holding out on us, Martin.” 

“Many? I only have the-- oh.”

In Sasha’s arms were six little balls of purring fur, one large and five small. Surprise and anxiety rose in Martin’s chest. He didn’t know that single tribbles could get pregnant.

“Could I maybe keep one?” Sasha asked with an excited grin. 

“O-oh, yeah. Of course. I didn’t expect her to give birth, actually. Explains, uh, the escape. Here, I’ll send you some information on how to take care of them.”

“Oh, thank you! They’re so cute.” Sasha beamed. She passed over the others and Martin felt the tension drain from his body as his heart rate slowed. It would be alright. He had enough food and a big enough enclosure for all of them. Maybe now that he’d given Sasha one, they’d have something to talk about, become friends. 

“I know, they’re adorable.” 

Suddenly, there was an alarm sounding. Red Alert. 

“All officers to stations.” 

“Oh, shit! I guess I-We’d better go, then.” Martin ran as fast as was safe with an armful of tribbles. “Take care!”

“Yeah, thanks!” Sasha called after him. 

* * *

Before dealing with guests, Jon decided he was going to get the med bay to treat his growing headache. At least there were no longer red alert sirens. If he was lucky, Martin would be out still looking for his tribble, and he could get himself a mild hypospray and be out before he noticed. He didn’t want to have to bother with the damn clumsy doctor. 

The door quietly slid open to sickbay. He apparently was not lucky. Martin stood at his counter, humming softly. When he heard the door, he turned around, syringe in hand. 

“Hi, Jon.” 

“Martin. I’d like Beta Perazidamol, for a headache.”

“Oh, of course. Are you stressed out? First day, new encounters?” Martin asked with a friendly chuckle, what he probably thought was good bedside manner. 

Jon pressed his fingers to his head. He didn’t want to have this conversation. “Yes. Just the hypospray, please.” 

“Okay, well along with this, I’m going to prescribe you a nice night and some tea,” Martin said in the same cheery laugh. 

“Tea?” Jon looked up with confusion as Martin gently pressed something to his neck. His hand briefly pressed the back of Jon’s shirt, forcing him to repress a shiver. 

“Oh, it’s… it’s a joke, nevermind.”

Wanting to look at anything other than Martin’s face, Jon glanced at the counter. In a box there was a collection of small soft looking things. “I thought you said you brought one tribble.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’ve got eleven.” Jon craned his neck to peer into the box. He had the striking urge to pick one up and stroke it.

“Noticed that, huh? Do you know what happens if you feed a tribble too much?”

Jon paused, confused. “A fat tribble?”

“No, a bunch of hungry ones. I ought to open a nursery.” Martin smiled, picking up a computer pad. “You’re good to go, Jon. Unless you later reconsider that cup of tea.”

“No. Just keep them contained. Don’t let the animal incident happen again.” And with that, Jon was off to meet an unpleasant clown.

* * *

Sasha and Tim waited in the transporter room while Jon went to get his medicine. Daisy opted to wait by the door. 

A messaged pinged on the console. 3 to beam up. Sasha considered it. “Didn’t Jon say two?”

“Yeah, I think he did. Might be best to just… diplomatically ignore it, though.”

Sasha pondered it for a moment. She had no intention of doing anything rash while Jon was gone, but this seemed like something that probably wouldn’t hurt. “I think we can handle an extra circus weirdo, yeah.” She pressed her hand to the dial and carefully calibrated the transporter. She hit a button.

Strange figures appeared on the transporter pad. Sasha couldn’t shake the creeped-out feeling that she got from the central figure, the one in the clown mask. She was tall, lanky, and all joints, dressed as a ringmaster without eyes. The red of her coat was less wine than blood. Behind her, two men in what looked like old earth messenger outfits stood tall and still. They, too wore masks, although rather than clowns they had simplified, stylized human faces, completely identical. 

The middle one laughed. It sounded echoed and fake, like a recording from an old movie. 

“Hello, hello! What a welcome. I’m Nikola, ringmaster of Madam Orsinov’s Intergalactic Flying Circus.” 

“...’m Breekon.” A low voice with what was obviously a fake accent sounded from what could have been either of the two men. “...’nd Hope.”  


“I have to say, it’s lovely that you’ve somehow kept this old jalopy running! You know what I thought, on seeing the outside? I thought: That’s awful shiny for a garbage scow!” 

Sasha took a step forward, her blood already boiling. How dare this… this _space clown_ insult her beautiful ship! Sure, she wasn’t the one who designed it, but it was Gertrude’s project, and that might as well be an insult to her mother. Besides, _The Magnus_ might not be starfleet’s flagship, but she was a good, solid ship. Sasha’s ship. 

Tim, the saint, grabbed her arm. “Easy, Sash,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. “Just a weird ass clown making jokes.”

Right. Sasha forced a neutral face and gave her best impression of polite amusement. She thought it went rather well. “Welcome aboard. The captain should be here shortly.”

Tim stepped in front of her, extending a hand for a shake. “I’m First Officer Tim Stoker. You sure like jokes, huh?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind waiting for dear old Ears. You know, that’s what we call our elephant?” She let out another strange, canned laugh. “Oh, that man seems to have quite the stick up his ass! And I’d know, I’ve known many a puppet.” She took Tim’s hand, shook it, and then pulled some colourful flags from it. She held the flags up in a flourishing display and shook it. It turned into something white and lace. Panties. Hilarious. 

Sasha tried to take a subtle deep breath. This was going to go over _so well_ with the captain. She gave another plastered smile in the name of diplomacy. 

“I’m Sasha James, ship's Engineer.”

There was something _awful_ in the way Nikola’s head turned to her. Like something other than the body itself was wrenching it. “ _Oh?_ I didn’t know they let... _your kind_ do that sort of thing.” She threw her head back into an even louder rendition of that terrible laugh.

“You might want to rephrase that.” Tim interjected. Gone was the mirth from his voice. “I’m sure I didn’t catch what you mean.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s probably _awful cute_ of your people to let you play dress-up like this. Is your proper engineer busy?” Another laugh.

Before Sasha could properly react Tim had leapt from where he was standing and _wow okay that’s one hell of a punch._ Before her eyes his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it right hook hit the clown right in the middle of her creepy mask. There was a satisfying _CRACK_ and the center fractured into a concave split. The woman staggered, not laughing any longer. She stared, or at least must have been staring, as her mask remained stubbornly on her face, the crack in it reaching towards the edges like a scar. 

Sasha wanted to laugh, in both amusement and surprise. Tim, defending her honor? She would tease him about it later. What a knight in shining armor. 

The two burly messenger guys, Breekon and Hope stepped forward. One of them had rolled up his sleeves. Oh, _shit._

* * *

It had taken Jon and Daisy fifteen minutes, a Vulcan neck hold and three shots of a phaser to break up the fight properly. He now stood in front of Tim, and Sasha, sporting bruised ribs, two black eyes and a split lip between them, lined up in their mussed hair and torn uniforms. 

“Who started it? I’m waiting.” Jon did his best to appear serious and intimidating. “Sasha. Who started the fight?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Sasha pushed back, a little defiantly. Jon’s posturing didn’t mean much to her. He wouldn’t replace her as ship’s engineer. He knew that as well as she did.

“Stoker! Who started it? I trusted you to prevent trouble.” 

“Yep.” Tim agreed, placing emphasis on the ‘p’. He shifted, but didn’t blink under Jon’s piercing gaze. Jon tried to press him harder. 

“Something to say, Tim?”

“I did, Captain. I started it.”

Jon, satisfied in the affirmation of his authority, stepped away slightly. “You did now, First officer? What caused it, Tim?”

“They insulted us, sir. The lady thinks she’s funny.” 

“You threw the first punch.”

“Well, yeah. Sash was pissed, but I held her back.”

“You held her back? Why did you two want to fight?” 

“This on the record?” Jon narrowed his eyes at Tim. “...Yeah, okay. She called the ship a junker, a garbage ship. Compared you to an elephant, too. Oh, and mentioned that stick up your ass.”

“Is that all?”

“No, sir. She also went after Sasha.” Jon noticed Tim’s shift in tone when he said this. Whatever was said, Tim was certain he was justified with his actions. Something so caring, righteous and determined in the way that he looked back at her. It confused Jon.

“You’re both dismissed. Have Martin look you over. Then you’re restricted to quarters until further notice. Daisy, keep an eye on our guests, please. I need to consult Basira.”

* * *

To his surprise, Basira was already at the door, a mild look of concern on her face. She held up the computer pad in her hands. 

“Your Nikola Orsinov? Flies _The Calliope?_ She’s a fugitive.” Basira stated, straight to the point. 

Jon really should not have been surprised. “What charges? Espionage, Piracy?”

Rather than explain, Basira nodded. “And others. I accessed the records of her ship because of its rather unique build. It’s being tracked through half the quadrant. Orsinov boards ships, brutally murders the crew, and then leaves the ship a stripped hull.”

“What?” Orsinov was strange and suspicious, but murderous?

“There’s about seventeen warrants out for her arrest. She apparently… apparently she likes to remove and keep people’s skin. You’ve got a killer on your ship, Captain.”

Jon whirled around so fast it nearly flung him off balance. “Daisy!”

* * *

Sasha and Tim’s walk back to their quarters was not nearly as shameful when they walked together. She was thankful for that. He bemoaned his wounds, but she could tell they really weren’t so bad. 

“My hero.” She stopped briefly to dramatically curtsy.

“I better be! Sure showed that bitch not to mess with our Engineer, huh?” He pumped his fist and winced. “That Breekon guy was no joke, though.” 

“Oh, you’ll live. Not like I didn’t take a hit or two,” Sasha countered. In actuality, she had taken a lot less damage than Tim, barely sporting more than messy clothes and a split lip. She had no intention of mentioning this. 

Tim slung his arm around her to feign a limp as they passed Engineering, laughing and keeping up the joke. A low rumble emanated from her engine room. She froze. That was not a good noise.

“Wait.” She pulled his arm off more quickly than she should have and Tim fell to the floor with surprise. She scampered into the engine room. 

Inside was the tribble she had left in a box, next to a broken replicator she was trying to repair. Surrounding it, were about a thousand more small fuzzy creatures. They flooded over the desk, onto the floor, over her poor, straining engine. They seemed to like the heat of it. However, they were completely upsetting the balance of it, not to mention clogging up the moving parts that Sasha maintained so carefully. 

“Oh, no!” She cried, immediately running to the engine to pull fuzzball after fuzzball off of it. “Tim, come help me out!” 

He staggered in after her. “Oh, shit.” He dumped a bunch of scrap metal out of a bin and started throwing tribble into it. “I’m glad I don’t have to file the write up for this.” 

Sasha crawled up to the topside of the warm engine, where yet more tribbles had made their home. Beneath her, the engine gave a shaky groan. “That’s….not good.”

* * *

Jon quickly discovered that Daisy had a shoot-first, ask questions later policy. He ran to her aid rather unnecessarily; by the time he had arrived, Orsinov and her agents were already unconscious. Daisy held the two men, one gripped tightly in each arm. 

“They were not cooperating,” she explained, side-eyeing Orsinov’s limp form. “I’ll take them to the brig.” 

The stun lasted until Jon unceremoniously dumped Orsinov’s plastic-stiff body on the cot provided in the holding cell. There was only the one cell on the ship, so the three would have to share. 

With an inhuman snap, the circus master sat up. “You’re not being very fun, Captain Jon. Can I call you Jon? And here I thought we were going to have a jolly old time.”

“I’ve seen the headlines. We’re still trying to count out how many you left dead. This isn’t for fun, Orsinov. You’re a threat.” Jon replied.

“And don’t I know it! It should be thirty-six, if my count is correct. In our listed showings, you’d be thirty-seven.”

“You can’t scare me.”

“Sure I can! But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to be entertained both and entertaining! It’s a circus, dear Jon. And then I need your parts.”

“Parts? From the ship?” Jon asked, trying to stare where her eyes would be if they were visible. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, from you too, dear Jon. I bet your voice would be lovely for singing.” She cartwheeled over to the cell gate, which was sealed with a force field. Before tumbling into it, she froze, and remained balanced standing on her hands. She tilted her head up at Jon. “I’m going to escape, you know.” 

“I very much doubt that, Madam. Now, about your information--”

“I don’t particularly feel like sharing. Come back to me when it sounds more… fun!” She interrupted, and then flopped down dramatically, with a laugh. 

Jon was about to argue, when he received a page from Engineering. “There’s something you should see here, Jon,” Sasha called, sounding strained. 

He put his hand to the bridge of his nose. Orsinov’s intel would have to wait.

* * *

Jon glared as he tripped over a pile of tribbles slowly accumulating in the engine room.

“ _Martin,”_ he snarled, but the doctor wasn’t there. He was still happily puttering about in medbay, likely unawares. “What happened here?”

Sasha, of all people, gave him a sheepish look. Jon hadn’t expected her to cause any issues, as capable and intelligent as she was. “So, I may have let a tribble get into one of the replicators. But it’s okay! They’re mostly harmless.”

_Do you know what happens if you feed a tribble too much?_ Martin’s voice helpfully echoed in his memory. Jon brought his mind away from it. “You said mostly?”

“Yes, well. That’s why I called you down here. They’re gunking up the engine. If we don’t get every single one out of here in the next few minutes, It’ll overload. We’ll be dead in space.” Sasha threw another handful of tribbles into a crate. It barely made a dent in the pile. 

“Good Lord,” Jon muttered. Cursing was a habit that he could never seem to shake. “That is not ‘Mostly Harmless’. Right. Get them out of here, whatever it takes. Right now would be a _terrible_ time to be immobile. Tim, help her out. Maybe call Martin and see if he knows a good way to control all his little pests.”

He picked one up, intending to drop it in a box. The anger and tension that was pulling his brow tight and his pressing his shoulders heavy suddenly lifted. He looked at the little creature, and mused for a brief pause. Maybe he’d hold onto this one, just for now. For scientific observation. 

* * *

It was immediately apparent that negotiation with Orsinov would not get anywhere. She probably didn’t actually know anything, and was just itching for a good reason to sing while divesting Jon and his crew of their skin. It was a revolting thought. 

Now he was left with a choice. First was to wait for the rest of her much larger crew to attack their ship, or run to the nearest starbase and hope that they could make it. Before he could do any of that, of course, he would have to call Admi-- _Elias._ No matter what it would set their mission back by at least a day. 

He went back briefly to check on her cell, to find her happily warping her body into an unnatural pretzel, while her companions stood in obedient silence. 

“Jon! You’ve come back!” She untangled her joints to approach him. In his hand, the tribble hissed.

“What. Is. That. Thing.” She jumped back, and crouched like an animal, eye boring holes into the creature with a glare he could feel from under her mask. 

“This is a tribble. I thought all humans liked them.” Jon considered, carefully. 

“Oh, Jon. What indication did I give you to assume I am human? Get that away from me, if you please.” 

The tribble screeched. 

“Interesting. What a perceptive creature.” Jon waited until Orsinov turned back to him. “Are you inclined to share your information on the USS Millbank?

She just let out the same false laugh. That was a no, then.

“I see.” Jon turned around and walked briskly out of the room. “Daisy, keep a close eye on them.”

Daisy did as she was told, giving a wary look to the tribble. 

* * *

Jon was not avoiding the call with Elias, he told himself, he simply needed another update on the situation in Engineering. He found Sasha in the transporter room, beaming them up onto the pad by the bunch. 

“Oh. I see you found a solution.” 

“Did you ever doubt me, Jon? Although, it was Martin’s idea. This will keep them from reproducing any more, at least. There’s no food in here. And they’re off of my poor warp core.”

“That is satisfactory.”

“Thank you! Still have no idea what to do with them now that they’re in here, though. I’m sure we’ll think of something!” 

Well, that was… good, actually. Not effective as a reasonable distraction, however. Jon ended up back in his office, making the dreaded call. 

“Nice to hear from you again, my Captain.” Elias’s voice sounded cheerful through the comm.

“If I can call you Elias, it is sensible for you to call me Jon,” he replied. “There’s been a situation.”

Jon told Elias about the visit from _The Calliope_ and the capture of Orsinov. He did his best to leave out any mention of tribbles.

“Well done, Captain, well done!” Elias commended. “I wouldn’t worry about trying to drop her off back with Starfleet yet. I’m convinced this whole thing will sort itself out. Pay no mind to the delays in schedule. These things are expected to take time.”

Jon got the feeling Elias was overlooking all the actual danger that was presented to himself and his crew. 

“But, Elias--”

A siren sounded. Red Alert, again. 

“Oh! You’d better go get that, Captain. Adieu!” With that, the Admiral signed off. Jon was certain that if Tim were present, he would have called him a prick. 

* * *

Daisy’s rage was audible from down the hall. She expressed it with a sounding roar, and a following grumble as she paced the brig.

“Captain! They’ve escaped.” Orsinov had left behind a tiny box that repeated her terrible laugh. Jon handed it to Daisy, who crushed it in her palm. “I’m going to launch some rockets at their ship.”

Jon put out an arm. He wasn’t stronger than a Klingon, but he was stronger than he looked. “No, Daisy. You’re not.” 

She looked him in the eye, the balled her hand into a fist. “Fine. I’m not.” 

Basira’s voice was on the intercom. “Captain! She’s on the comms!”

Jon ran to the bridge with as much urgency as he could manage. Once there, he was face to face with a real-time image of Orsinov. Behind her was an army of other masked clowns. 

“Jon! Now there’s time for some real fun. I’m going to sit down and play one of my favorite songs! You have until I’m done to try and run. Good luck!” Her horrible singsong voice was starting to bring back his headache. 

She turned to an old pipe instrument, and began to play. 

“Bridge to First Officer Tim! I need you here now!”

* * *

Tim arrived with impressive haste. Couldn’t keep the captain waiting, could he?

“I heard it, Boss!” He leapt over the back of his seat to land smoothly in the pilot’s chair. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

The helm responded easily to his touch. He pulled her sharply to the right and gunned the engine. Sasha had already gotten it back to capacity. “Basira, can you shut the clown up, please?” He called over his shoulder. 

Jon must have given her a silent go-ahead, because the ear-splitting circus music ceased. “Let’s outfly a clown space pirate!”

The ship peeled away at top speed, heading in the direction they had intended all along: the asteroid belt. Jon shot him an alarmed glance. Ha, there were those emotions the little green man took so much time to hide. If they all died here, Tim supposed, at least he got that. It wasn’t surprising that he was concerned, though. They hadn’t had time to establish a reasonably safe route through the area. But, Tim figued, he knew what he was doing well enough. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten between a literal rock and a hard place. He’d just have to plot their course as they went.

And they were off, already seeing bigger ice and rock debris as they whizzed by. The proper belt would be there soon. Whoo, boy. 

Tim glanced over the calculations that Jon and Basira had earlier helped him with. They had an approximate map, and he trusted their math. The odds were in their favor, right? 

“Strap in, boss!” 

Behind them, the ship alerted that the goddamn clown ship was on their tail again. Well, here goes nothing.

* * *

They were alive. A murderous gang of starship pirates had chased them through an uncharted minefield of an asteroid belt at top speed, and they were safely on the other side. And alive. 

Jon realized that now that they were through, Tim was a live wire, practically vibrating at his seat. The last time a chunk of ice had pulled across their hull like nails across a chalkboard, Tim’s face had contorted like a wrung rag. He was only marginally relaxed from that now. Basira’s usual blank face held incredible tension, despite being smooth. They held still and silent. Waiting for him. Right. 

“Tim, that was incredibly rash, unsafe, and for the record, completely unsanctioned. There is a reason that, even in emergencies, we have plans and a chain of command. That said, I am… glad that you did it. Is everyone alright?” 

Tim let out a bitter, nervous chuckle. “We’re alive, boss. I think that’s what matters.” 

“Yes, of course. You will report to medbay for a full examination the minute your duties allow for it. Now, I need to assess the damage to my ship.”

* * *

He found Daisy stalking the halls, scouring every inch of the ship for evidence of intruders. So far, she had found nothing, but Jon asked her to report when he was done looking. 

Sasha and Martin were in the transporter room, looking shaken, but somehow proud. _Like a cat that got the cream,_ the human phrase went. 

“I don’t see any tribbles. Martin, how did you do it? Were they exterminated?” Jon asked, with genuine curiosity. 

“No, sir.” Martin gave him a pink, sheepish grin. “I can’t take credit for Sasha’s work, either.”

“Oh?” Jon raised an arched eyebrow. “Sasha, how did you do it?”

“Oh, Martin, it was your biscuits we--” 

“Sasha. I’m not interested in this mutual admiration. I’d like to know where the tribbles are.”

“Of course, Jon. I used the transporter. Not into open space, don’t worry, that would be irresponsible. No, I dropped them off with the circus folk! It looked like they’d appreciate having some more animals.” She looked at Martin with a conspiratorial smile.

Martin laughed, a soft and open laugh. “And I suggested she send my stash of tea biscuits with them! I had a month’s worth, you know. Right into the clown lady’s engine room.”

“I’d call that a good home.” Sasha added “And plenty of food, too!”

“You filled the enemy engine room with biscuits and tribbles.” Jon repeated, at a loss for further words. 

“Yes! I, uh, expect they’ll be no further tribble at all.” Martin joked, laughing again. It was a million times better than Orsinov’s unnatural cackle. 

* * *

> “Captain’s log, supplemental. Despite our encounter with the pirate ship _The Calliope_ and the… last-minute navigation of the asteroid belt, we have made it out with only superficial damage. The crew is undoubtedly exhausted, but we should be able to continue our mission after a night. Repairs will be made as soon as possible. I find myself grateful for the talents and training of my first officer, and the remarkable odds of our survival. Logically, of course, today will not be the precedent for his journey, as it is unlikely we will face these exact dangers again. That does not do much to convince me however, that this is going to be an easy trip. I will consider the doctor’s offer of a cup of tea. End Supplemental.”


	2. Spiegel-im-Spiegel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a planet that shouldn't exist.

> “Captain’s log, Stardate 4223.0. We are on the course that Starfleet planned as the last mission of the USS Millbank. For the majority of the morning, it has been an uneventful trip. All our scans have listed nothing, save a few bare planets and a comet. No evidence of space travel whatsoever. However, we are approaching an area of Gertrude’s map listed as having a planet, a planet that does not exist in any other account. Due to the...eccentries of Gertrude Robinson, I am inclined to dismiss this as a mistake, and yet it is curious. I will be through in my search of the area. End log.”

Jon sat in his office on the bridge, staring at the floating marker on the ship’s original map that should by all reasoning not be there. A sun, with no light that their ship could detect called _Ny-Ålesund_ . A planet, orbiting that sun, with no moon or neighboring objects. It was too large, too _specific_ to be a mistake. He switched it back over to the Vulcan map, featuring a blank space, the most likely state of most of the universe. Gertrude was an aging woman. It was logical to assume her faculties had just begun to slip. He reached to activate the computer’s recording to add to his log.

A beep notified him of someone at the door. 

“Hey, I just wanted to make sure you had some breakfast?” Unfortunately, it was Martin.

“Uh,” Jon replied intelligently. 

“Oh, sorry, are you recording a log? I thought there wasn’t anything to report for today?” There was the usual flush of pink on his cheeks, the expression betraying him as human. Martin looked nervous, but that was not unusual.

“I was. I’m just making a comment on the map.” His eyes tracked the dish as Martin placed it gingerly on his desk. It smelled like plomeek broth. Jon’s mind immediately turned to thoughts of his childhood home. He pushed them away.

“Oh, are we going to run into anything interesting?” Jon moved too slowly to prevent Martin from glancing at the map. “ _The Archive_. That’s rather cryptic for a planet, isn’t it?” Jon didn’t really see how it was any of Martin’s concern, but the man was there now, moving closer into Jon’s space. 

“It’s merely a mistake the map’s cartographer must have made. ‘Cryptic’ has nothing to do with it. Return to medbay, Martin. I’m sure you’re better needed there.” He wasn’t even certain why the doctor was there in the first place. 

“Right, right. Be sure you eat, okay? I’m saying that as your physician.” 

“Vulcans don’t need to consume nearly as often as…”

“Right, but you’re not completely Vulcan, are you? So you need to eat.” He said it in an even, firm tone. The pink was still on his cheeks, on his ears, but his soft expression was more serious. It almost felt like an order.

“I suppose I’m not. Thank you, Martin,” Jon replied. “Er. Please leave.” 

Martin responded with a small noise and then the door slid closed with a click. Martin was always in the way. Why couldn’t he mind his business in medical?

* * *

After consuming the provided soup, which Jon decided should not go to waste, he went to his place on the bridge. Tim was chatting with Sasha about his last mission as he piloted the ship. 

“Report, Tim?” 

“Literally nothing as far as even your elf eyes could see, sir. Don’t know what you expected.” Tim gestured at the screen. 

“Wait, Tim, what’s that?” Sasha asked, jabbing him with her elbow. She was staring at a spot on the screen.

“What’s wh-- Oh. Well, I’ll be damned, that’s a whole planet! What’s that doing there? It almost looks like...”

Sasha gestured the captain over. “Jon, you’ll want to see this.”

It was the size of Earth, according to the ship’s sensors, that had just barely picked it up on the edge of their range. The ship still had no indication of a sun, which should have been giving off enough light for them to physically see by now. But the planet, barely a blip on Tim’s wide radar, was anchored to something. It was also obviously, undeniably real. 

“ _The Archive,_ ” Jon said. “It was on Gertrude’s faulty map. It… logically it shouldn’t exist.” 

“Well, it’s definitely there, boss. Do you need a rock to be sure?” 

If the planet was there when Smirke was exploring the area, there was no doubt that he would have stopped there. It was the kind of thing that made adventurous men act rashly, a scientific mystery with the appeal of unknowns and discovery. A weak mind would call it supernatural. That made the planet a lead in their investigation, even if it wasn’t directly in the path the Millbank was supposed to take. There was probably some evidence of what Smirke was up to out here on that planet. Of course, he didn’t know where he would find that, but, for the sake of investigation, it would be logical to look. 

“Take us in closer, Tim.”

The entire ship shook slightly, and Jon’s gaze snapped up to the viewscreen, displaying the stretch of space just outside the bridge. It was as if the ship had passed an invisible barrier. Light gently streamed in as they drew slightly closer to what was now very visibly a sun. It seemed to have appeared without reason, right out of the darkness. Nearer than the blinking circle in the sky was a planet of swirling blue and green. White-grey clouds and patchy brown deserts splotched over it, a calico of life and variety. It’s continents were an eerily familiar shape.

“Whoa, woah--that looks like Earth.” Tim said, his cheery tone dropped to reveal something nearly reverent. 

Sasha ran forward to look closer. “Yeah, yeah that does. _Weird._ We going down to see what’s on it?” 

“It still seems the best course of action,” Jon replied, and then turned to take the basic readings: Temperature, Air Composition, geological stability, signs of life. “Is to send down a small investigation party and take an overall scan of the planet. It’s safe to walk and breathe on.” 

He told himself that there was a good reason for the spot he picked to land on. Logically, it was a random continent with a reasonable and easy-to-navigate landscape. There was definitely no strange, mysterious pull that encouraged his decision, that determined that that specific spot was right. No, that would be impossible. It was just the best place to land a scouting party. 

* * *

Once on the planet, Sasha was struck with how truly Earth-like this planet was. It matched her memory of it to a disturbing degree. Evergreen trees wound down the slopes of the hill they had beamed down to and showed the way down to a peaceful lake. 

“I swear I can smell honeysuckle. This is unbelievable. It’s exactly like Earth; it must be so unlikely.” She said aloud. There wasn’t much of a reaction. Daisy was impartially scanning the area, and Basira analyzed one of the plants. Jon hadn’t even noticed. Guess that’s what you get for traveling with a bunch of aliens. 

Basira didn’t even look up from her tricorder. “Astronomical. The chances of this planet being in the same conditions as earth and reacting the same way-- ”

She was cut off by Daisy gesturing to an object. “What the hell is that?”

Over the hill and past a couple of trees was a tall white obelisk. It pointed like a saber into the sky, ending in a wider base and a couple of steps, slowly grumbling under the thick roots of nearby trees. Like a 20th century New York City skyscraper in the middle of the woods. It was dark, with lighter patternings of what looked to be writing neatly etched into every feasible surface.

Jon stepped forward towards it. “Can you analyze it, Sasha?”

She pointed out the tricorder in her hands and ran some basic scans. It was made out of some alien stone. It was cold, colder than it should be in the daylight. As it had no obvious rate of decay, it was impossible to calculate it’s age. 

“Some kind of unknown mineral. It’s resistant to most of the scans. It’s got markings, though. Definitely writing.” Sasha ran up to get a better look. “It’s got a door, here.”

It was a grand, heavy thing, bracketed with stone pillars. Every inch was adorned with the same text as the rest of the building, but it was accompanied by shapes and pictographs that looked like different eyes. It looked ceremonial, as if there was some ritual meant to be used upon it. Religious. After a brief push, it slid open with a smooth, mechanical motion. The inside was cavernous and dark. They switched on their lights, illuminating it a little. 

“Basira, can you give me any indication what the writing is?” Jon asked. “Daisy, make a look of the building.”

“Negative, Captain. It’s clearly from a culture at least equalling our own. It’s a writing system, and it’s complex. That’s really all I know. Otherwise, I’ll need more time.” Basira took some photo and video records. 

“Right. Well, keep trying. I’m going inside. Daisy?” He asked as she returned. She told them there was no one visible in the area. 

Sasha, alive with curiosity, followed them both in. When they had all walked into the center of it, the platform beneath them began to move, and gently carried them to a floor at the top. 

“Well, here’s hoping I can get it to let us back down again,” Sasha said, kneeling to inspect their elevator. “Not sure you can beam much from in here.”

Jon nodded. “You two stay here. I’m going to have a look around.” He turned on a small light. The same script from the outside covered every wall. Upon closer inspection, it turned out that the walls were not walls at all, but hundreds of thousands of small stacked pieces of technology, each labeled with something and then the distinct pictograph of an eye. 

Jon reached out to touch one instinctively, and it popped out and into his hand. 

It began to whirr and move. “ **\--sure you can beam much from in here.”** It played aloud in Sahsa’s voice. There was a pause, and footsteps.

**“You two stay here.”** With a click, the whirring and motion stopped. 

“I found some kind of recording device,” Jon announced. He neatly stored it away in a pocket, to analyze later. 

A little further away, there was a large table, wrought of the same stone as the building’s exterior. It was empty, save for some long square objects in the center. Jon moved closer to see.

The tablets there were covered in the little pictograph eyes. They seemed to sparkle and wink at him, although logically, it was just the light. 

On every open inch, there was that text again. It was scrawled over the surface in messy carvings. Jon reached for a tablet, pressed his fingers to the cold surface of it. 

The telepathic link hit him like a blow. It wasn’t like connecting with a person, where thoughts and feelings came in waves and jumbled messes as they formed and charged his way. This was a painful, indescribable but systematic flood of his mind. It’s like a catalogue, if a catalogue could drown you. And Jon was drowning. The information flowed in so violently he couldn’t have pulled a separate thought from it any more than you could isolate a drop of water from the sea. Names, dates, places, reports of circumstances, entries, series of recordings, and none of it was distinguishable from any of the rest.

There were no emotions to it. Not like there were supposed to be, at least. It wasn’t the climate-controlled way that a Vulcan felt either. Rather, the assault of an index pushing all coherent thought out of his brain only felt afraid. Fear and fear and fear and the idea that everyone was afraid of something, and Jon would get to witness it, that is he didn’t know this much of everything, he would die. It was a certain fact to him, in that moment, that he needed to _know._

And then it was gone. Jon didn’t pull his hand away, he didn’t have to. The onslaught of information had simply shut off, as if he had closed his eyes. The information drained away, until he could barely remember what it felt like. He stood there a moment, reeling.What had he been doing? 

The artifacts, right. He carefully brought the light up to the tablets. It looked undamaged.

Jon cleared his throat. He was a starship captain, he didn’t have the luxury of being uncertain or confused. He would take the tablets back to the ship with him for study. There were no people here, obviously, so it wouldn’t be defying any starfleet directives. 

He very carefully tucked it under his arm. “Any luck with the lift, Sasha?”

When there was no response, he turned around. “Sasha?”

* * *

Sasha used her sleeve to brush the dust off of what she assumed was the control panel to the lift. Like the panels on the Magnus it was an inky black screen with buttons to its side, where, when the power was working correctly, the right tap would let it spring to life with a colourful backlight. However, this one was more stubborn than the one on the Magnus. All she could see was her own warped, smoky reflection in it.

Something in the corner of the screen moved. Sasha immediately fixed on it. She really hoped that it was the flicker of electronic life the screen should give as the screen turned on.

Instead, a face stared back at her, a reflection next to hers. It was distorted by the angle of the not-quite-glass. Something behind her was looking at the screen, something large and wrong and wavy. It looked like it was holding up a hand, but it was longer than any hand should be, and ended in a wicked point.

“I see you, you know,” she told them. 

Sasha knew she should be afraid. She was the jumpiest person on her last ship, and was certainly not brave compared to someone like Tim. She could barely stomach a horror novel. Still, nothing in particular about the figure that she still hadn’t yet turned around to face filled her with true distress. She simply felt that it was not normal, even for another species, that something wasn’t right. Lots of things were weird in the universe. It was less sinister and more curious. Something deep within Sasha was just itching to discover what it was, to look. She had to see for herself. She took a deep breath and turned around. 

Behind her was what appeared to be a completely unassuming human. He was tall, taller than her, and had long blonde hair. His face was completely normal, save for it’s expectant stare. He looked straight at her. 

“What… who are you?” She asked, feeling like this was some kind of trance. The man laughed, and it sounded unnatural, somehow. Not in the uncanny way that Nikola Orsinov had been fake, more like he was laughing normally and something between him and her brain turned the volume up. 

“It doesn't matter much what we are, does it? I couldn’t describe it if I wanted to. I wonder how a melody would describe itself when asked?”

Sasha fought the urge to scoff. What kind of answer was that? She liked puzzles, sure, but when she had a question, she didn’t want a riddle for an answer. “If you’re not going to actually talk, you can leave. I have a lift to repair.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry. Let's try again, yes? If you would like, you can call me Michael. That would be close enough.” He, or possibly it tried to reassure her. He didn’t say it like that was actually his name. He then stood silent, waiting. 

“What do you want? Or, I guess how can I help you? If, well-- if this place is yours…”

“It’s not.” ‘Michael’ replied. “This belongs to something else. I am visiting you, because I want to help.” His smile wasn’t painted on, but it may as well have been. 

“Help? With the lift or…” She wasn’t sure what his game was, and wasn’t about to give him any leverage on her in the meantime. Best to feign ignorance. 

He repeated his soft, weird laugh.

“I’d like to be friends!” He reached out to take her hand. Despite a lifetime of batting people away from that sort of thing, Sasha froze up. It was like holding hands with a stone. Her skin began to crawl.

She made a noise and stepped away, clutching the hand he had held. “I should go, I…”

“Sasha,” the man said, and Sasha realized she never introduced herself. “If you want to save your Jon, or your Timothy Stoker, you’ll come with me.” 

Fear was beginning to properly crawl into Sasha. It grabbed at her limbs, made it hard to move. Who was this ‘Michael’ and how did he know her name, everyone’s name? What did he mean about saving their lives? She felt her hands shake, and had to tuck them behind her back to hide it. 

‘Michael’ was gesturing to a yellow door behind him. Sasha was certain it wasn’t there moments before. He opened the door, clearly expecting her to go with him. She glanced behind her, at Jon, who was seemingly frozen in place. Well, that wasn’t much help. She didn’t know if this man was threatening him, but she wasn’t about to risk it. That didn’t leave her with much choice. 

She followed him through the door.

* * *

“Sasha?” Jon searched the wide room for any sign of her. She had just been there, behind him. He had let his guard down, didn’t think things through enough, and now… now she was gone. He pushed away the thought. He had to keep looking, Sasha counted on him. They all did.

“Jon to the Magnus,” he signaled to the ship.

“Yeah, boss?” Tim’s voice spoke back at him. 

“I need you to find Sasha’s location. Then, tell Daisy to keep an eye on Basira.” 

“Huh? Yeah, okay. She’s… hang on, there’s something wrong with the system. I can’t find her anywhere, there’s just this glitch--” Jon hung up on him.

“Sasha!” He called again. 

“Yeah, Jon?” she replied, and behind him a door opened. “Sorry, I found someone…” She looked drained, like she had been gone longer than a few minutes. She visibly pulled herself back together. Something hardened in her eyes. “We need to get the others and get back to the ship, now.” She gave him a look that told Jon that he couldn’t afford to wait for her to explain herself. 

“Alright.” He made sure the artifacts he was taking with him were secure.”Did you get the lift working?”

“He said it’d work,” she replied, and it did, slowly delivering them to the ground floor. 

“Sasha, what is going on here?” He asked, but she was too busy grabbing a hold of Basira. 

“Not now, I’ll tell you when we’re on the _Magnus_. We’ve gotta go.” 

* * *

Jon was very proudly a skeptic. It was natural for a Vulcan to be so, as evidence-based thinking was the backbone of logic. It was a position that often put him at odds with others, yes, and it inevitably made it hard to take people at their word. 

On the other hand, there was very little keeping him from wholeheartedly believing Sasha. His experience told him that Sasha was a bad liar, that she had a sound, scientific mind, and that her experiences, although tainted with her emotions, were technically feasible. 

That said, Jon did not believe in gods, or monsters. 

What Sasha must have met was some egocentric member of a particularly telepathically or technologically powerful race. His warnings of powers beyond their comprehension, or magic aliens and the like was incoherent ramblings, or worse, a threat. 

Still, even he could tell she was rattled by the situation. “So. What do you think?”

“Sasha, I believe you. We will look into it more later.”

“We should probably turn back, you know. Send a ship that’s more military? I don’t think this is a _safe_ mission.”

“It is an option. Do you _want_ to turn back?” If she asked, he would recommend it to Elias. There was no reason to not heed the recommendation of his chief engineer. 

“Oh, well. No. I’m too damned curious, I want to see this through. What about you?”

“I have no inclination for it. Whatever happened to the other ship, we need to know.”

He looked her in the eyes and tried to gauge her emotions. “Get some rest, Sasha. Go see Martin. I’m sure he’ll have some pertinent recommendations. Tim and I can handle ship’s maintenance for the day.” 

She thanked him, looking less shaken, and left. 

* * *

Jon was really starting to hate the frequent calls to Elias. This time, the man answered in his bathrobe, at home. 

“You said it was urgent?” Elias asked, slicking back his hair that was already perfectly in place. 

“Yes. We have made some discoveries.” Jon started, and then launched in a systematic series of events that had happened that day. He tried to keep the emphasis on the encounter with ‘Michael’ as realistic as possible, not wanting to discredit Sasha. 

Unexpectedly, Elias glossed over that part. “You said you found some artifacts? Show me.”

Jon lifted up the recording device, pressed it until it played. **“--get the others and get back to the ship, now.”** Sasha’s voice came clearly through it. Then, he carefully lifted up the tablets from the cloth that he had gently wrapped it in. 

“Excellent, Jon. Do you know what it says?”

“I can’t…” Jon looked at the tablet, and realized he could, in fact, understand the words at the top. “I thought I couldn’t read it.” 

“I’m sure Basira has been exceedingly helpful. Would you read that one aloud, Jon? I can’t quite see it.” 

“Of course.” Now was not the time to let on his confusion. Jon sighed and then cleared his throat. “You who watch and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend.” The world began to swirl away from Jon. The fear, the need, came flooding back to him. He was no longer in control of his voice. He was barely in control of his own being. It became hard to think hard to focus on anything except the pressure of knowing, the flood pouring into him. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. Who was he, reading this? He didn’t know why, or even when or where, only that this was happening, _everything_ was happening. “You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by--”

A blooming pain spread across Jon’s face. Someone had smacked him. A man’s face appeared above him. He had… curly hair. Nice, kind eyes. He wanted to trust those eyes. Jon blinked away tears. He was here now. Where was he?

“Jon!”

* * *

> “Captain’s Log, Supplemental. First Officer Tim Stoker commanding. An interaction with some kind of Alien technology has affected Captain Jon’s mind. I don’t think he knows who he is, anymore. We’re still waiting to hear back from medbay. I… God, I hope he’ll be okay. End Supplemental.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magnus Archives is podcast distributed by Rusty Quill, and licenced under a creative commons attribution non-commercial sharealike 4.0 international license. 
> 
> Today's episode features brief references to The Mechanisms (Fiction), the podcast itself, and Star Trek the Original Series. To see more, check out my other works, or look back here next Thursday.


	3. Requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a box, in medbay storage.  
> The captain dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit:  
> As a quick warning, this chapter references several gross things from the cannon of tma: Worms/Jane Prentiss, ants, and the teeth apple.  
> It's any worse than the originals, but if that isn't for you, feel free to skip the next few chapters.

> ### “Captain’s Log, Stardate… uh-- I don’t know, actually. I have been separated from the crew and the _Magnus._ I appear to be on some sort of planet. It’s a desert wasteland. There are crumbling buildings, and I think I’ve seen some creatures here, but no people. I have been here an indeterminate amount of time. Days, perhaps. I will continue the search for a way to contact Starfleet, or the Magnus. So far, however, I have not been met with much luck.”

* * *

Jon stared out over the world. Here, the sky was red and smelled of smoke. Ash rained down into his hair, adding to the already present streaks of grey. He saw charred fragments of walls, twisted girders pointing to the sky, shadows cast by nothing, because there is nothing here. The last thing he remembered was speaking to Elias on the ship. He still had the small and square recording device in his hand. 

There was no rule saying he needs to make a log. He couldn’t even contact the ship’s computer to do it, so he fidgeted with the alien box until he figured out how it would run. He needed to make a record, he reasoned, for future purposes. If he lived, the record will help him write reports later, if he died then it would make as fine a black box as any. 

He took another step. Vulcans could go a long time without eating or sleeping, and his body had yet to show the telltale signs of fatigue. 

Something fell with a gentle thunk at his feet. 

It was an apple. It’s waxy shine was violently out of place for this planet. He picked it up. There was a bite taken out of it, or what looked like one. Startled, he looked around, but there was no one in sight. Just the same stretch of wasteland for miles and miles. Looking back down at the apple, his stomach turned as he realized his mistake. It wasn’t that someone had taken a bite. The small white marks on its surface were _teeth_. It took all his restraint not to hurl it away from himself with a gasp. Instead, he examined it, tense with the delicate balance of curious neutrality where he should have been afraid. 

They shined an off-white. Jon counted 32, the amount a human would have. It was shaped grotesquely into a tight, perfect smile. Were there people here? Why would they have done this? 

A sharp crack came from the apple and this time Jon did jump, dropping it with little grace. It’s grinning teeth slowly ripped open in jerky degrees, and the thing jumped for his leg, teeth gnashing shut with an inorganic smack. There was a painful flash.

Jon reached for his phaser, but he wasn’t armed. The round red thing that was most certainly _not_ an apple tore through the leg of his trousers as he tried to scramble back. A well-aimed kick might have been rid of it, but he was too surprised to move, to do anything, as the wretched object went for his face and he stumbled forward, about to hit the rocky ground, and--

And he felt himself wrenching awake. 

* * *

It would be understatement of the century to say that Martin was freaking out. This was his first mission out this far from a station. His first mission as the only medic on board. He had less than two weeks ago found out that Jon, the stuffy commander he was trying desperately not to fall in love with, was going to be Captain of the first mission he had signed up for. Less than two days ago, he found out that man was a grouchy, indignant man that _really_ didn’t seem to like him at all.

Now, that same man, previously the proud captain of a starship, was trembling in his medbay. 

Martin brought out another blanket and mug of tea. 

“Hey, it’s okay, Jon. Do you remember who I am?” He asked, hopefully. 

Jon nodded solemnly, still looking much too small with how his body was curled up. It was a jarring contrast to his usual posture. “You’re Dr. Blackwood. Or, uh --Martin. We met yesterday.” 

Martin felt the crack in his heart grow a little wider. He widened his small smile, instead. “That’s me.” He offered the tea. His first night on board, he had dedicated a little too much time to learning how to make Vulcan spice tea. At least it was useful now.

Jon took the mug, slowly growing still. Martin wondered if he recognized the taste. “Can I ask you a few questions, Jon?” 

“Oh. Uh, sure, go ahead.” Jon wouldn’t meet his eyes. That was okay, he guessed. At least they were talking. 

“Okay, good. Do you know where you are, Jon?” He tried to keep his voice level. 

“This is medbay. You told me earlier.” 

“Right, I--uh, I guess I did. How much do you remember from before last night?” 

Martin squashed back the urge to press his fingers to the furrow that appeared in Jon’s brow. His face contorted in concentration. “I don’t…It’s gone. Like a dream. I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, that’s just fine. We’ll work on that. Do you remember the year you were born?” The year Jon gave him was not the year from his file, but a few years earlier. That was… concerning. Jon was able to give him his parent’s names, however, and the name of his hometown. Martin dutifully wrote it all down in his chart, and wished, for perhaps the millionth time, that this was something he had learned about on Earth. 

Tim came in with a change of clothes for the captain, and some of his personal effects. Martin pulled away to speak with him. “How’s he doing, then?”

“He hasn’t suffered any head trauma, or anything. I can’t detect any diseases, either. So there’s that,” Martin offered. He had the foresight to look up every detectable cause of amnesia the ship’s database had ever heard of, and test for them all last night. “Other than that, he’s pretty much exactly the same as last night. Last he remembers is me in his office.”

Tim’s face tightened into a grimace that didn’t suit his strong features. “Well, shit.” 

“Do you-- Do you want to talk to him? I need to go get some breakfast and bring him some. It’d be nice if you could keep an eye on things.” 

“Yeah, okay. I got you. Go do your things, Doc.” 

“Right.”

Martin finished up at his computer while Tim sauntered over to Jon, feeling the tension in the other man’s otherwise easy smile.

“Heyo, Boss. Remember me?” Martin didn’t have to hear to know Jon’s response. 

Tim still managed to continue, his voice only a little hoarse. “Ah, well. We’ll get there, yeah? How about that one time in the academy when we all went drinking, well, all of us but you, of course, and Admiral Bouchard came down for the cake…”

Martin rushed out of the room before he had time to break under Tim’s desperate cheer, his old stories. They’d tried this before, last night, but it didn’t really seem to register. Tim knew Jon better than anyone on the ship, but right now Jon didn’t know anyone. 

He’d better get some more soup.

* * *

Jon was dreaming, he realized. That was it. He faintly remembered falling asleep this time. The wasteland was now replaced with a burning ancient library. He pulled some of the books from the shelves, desperate to rescue a few out of an instinct he didn’t understand. It felt familiar here, but he was certain he’d never been here before, and he remembered quite a few libraries. The titles weren’t anything he recognized, nor in any language he knew how to read. Still, he clutched them to his chest like they were the only thing keeping him afloat. Fire surrounded him, even though he couldn’t feel its heat. The smoke choked his strengthened senses. 

There was a man, there, the hem of his coat smoking, his skin dark. His eyes were closed and his face serene, as if he, too, were sleeping. He grabbed Jon’s arm, pulled him close, and there was so little that Jon could do as the books fell to the floor. The man simply guided him out through the flames, as the library burned, and it hurt Jon in a way he couldn’t understand to see them burn. 

Outside the library it was different. Bodies stretched out on the ground, and before Jon could think it through, he was struck with the notion that if he were to look, he would find his crew there. He resisted the urge to call out for Sasha, for Tim, for Daisy, Basira or even _Martin._ Jon took a deep breath and rooted his feet to the ground. This wasn’t real. He needed to think. He sat down on the steps of the burning building. 

The man with the dark, smoking jacket reached out to him. Something flashed. He woke up.

* * *

“Tea, please. Vulcan spice.” Martin ordered from the food dispenser. He could just about hear Jon’s voice from a few days ago, telling him that there was no reason to say ‘please’ to a bunch of circuits. Martin, however, believed there was good reason to show everything a little courtesy every now and then. It was an exercise in being patient and kind.

If only Jon could remember that conversation. 

He nearly dropped his teacup as Jon made a keening sound from his bed. Martin knocked over half his desk in his scramble to get over to him faster.

“Christ!” He cried, gently helping Jon sit up. “Easy, there.” 

A trickle of green blood dripped from his nose. 

“I remembered it, Martin. For just a second, I…” Jon shook his head, sadly. “I remembered something, but it was painful. Now it’s gone.”

Martin got him some tissues and water. “We’re going to take some more scans of your brain, okay?“

* * *

There was a box in the medbay storage area that did not belong to Martin. It wasn’t on the ship’s manifest, either. He rarely paid it any mind, it was just some box that Gertrude or her crew had forgotten about. 

Recently, however, he was beginning to find it much more interesting. Jon was getting worse, that much was obvious. Martin couldn’t help but feel entirely unequipped to help him, and _God,_ did he need help. There just wasn’t much he could do about the condition of Jon’s mind. He didn’t know the first thing about Vulcans, much less their neuroscience. He didn’t even have any connection in the medical field he could call.

_‘Cerebral Augmentations.’_ The box read. It taunted him. It was probably nothing. Old research files and a pile of circuits. 

Martin glanced over as Jon stared blankly at a small screen. They had brought up photos from his graduation from the academy. This one was of Jon and Tim at the top of a ferris wheel. The camera clearly showed the way that Jon’s eye shone with the city lights, despite his displeased face. Tim had an arm over his shoulder. It looked nice, looked like a good memory. They had tried to show him dozens of those. It didn’t help. Now, Jon just stared at them with a cycle of determination, sadness, and nothing at all. 

But what if the box wasn’t nothing?

_‘Cerebral Augmentations.’_ That could have to do with memory, right?

Martin went to make them both some more tea. It was the only thing between him and complete panic. 

He should forget the box. 

* * *

Jon found himself dreaming again. Something else must be wrong, as he never needed to sleep this much. This time, he was on a train that looked to be from Earth’s 20th century. Outside, rather than landscape, the windows whooshed past stars. Somewhere in a different compartment of the train, there was screaming. 

The man was back, this time in a suit. It was a deeper black than the space outside. He looked passive, calm.

“Hello, Jon. Do you… _mind_ if I call you Jon? I, I mean, you don’t _actually_ know me. It’s just, well. ‘Archivist.’ It’s so formal, isn’t it? And I do _kind_ of know you…? Haven’t had much choice, really. Dreams are like that, you know. No matter how lucid you think they are, there’s always that part that just drags you along.”

Jon didn’t have the time to put up with this right now. His dreams didn’t last long, and he needed to find out what was going on while he could still remember it. Something came to his mind, painful and sharp, but it was gone in a flash.

“Stop.” His voice echoed with a strange buzzing that wasn’t normally there. “Who are you? What is happening to me?”

The man smiled, and then started to cough, or perhaps laugh. “Oh, now there’s something. Sorry to go on, I--I don’t talk to many people these days. So. My name is Oliver Banks, but I have many other names. You’re dreaming, but it’s more than that. One could say that you’re dealing with something… otherworldly. How much do you know about _The Archive?_ ”

“I don’t know much of anything. There was a planet, an on it an obelisk, and--” 

Oliver cut him off. “It’s not just a planet. It’s practically an ancient god. Think of it as a civilization’s worth of secrets and worries and fears, all channeled into something so big and so powerful it had begun to embody those things. A mind-meld so overwhelming that it overcomes the laws of the known universe. And you, Jon, have been chosen to be its host, its Avatar. But, of course, things haven’t gone through yet. You’re still a person, most of the time.”

Jon scoffed. “You’re delusional. There are no ancient gods.”

“Says the man who’s talking to someone in his dreams. You really ought to suspend your disbelief.” 

Right. This was a dream. It wasn’t real. Just a side effect of his amnesia. Jon willed himself to wake up. He was a lucid dreamer, when he dreamed at all. He was proud to have that level of control on his mind and body. 

It wasn’t working.

* * *

Martin was in medbay storage now. This was his chance, while Jon was asleep and Tim was busy communicating with Starfleet. He clutched the automatic crowbar to his chest. He had to open the box. Just in case. 

The sealed lid did not come off easily. It was almost like someone wanted to keep it shut. Luckily, Martin was no scrawny man. He put his weight into it. The lid came off with a creak and a light pop. It stayed propped up at the angle he pulled it to.

In his excitement, Martin dropped the crowbar and had to scramble for it before he got a chance to look inside. Finally, panting a little, he peered into the container. 

Disappointment and confusion washed over him all at once. Inside were hundreds, possibly thousands of little twisty bits of metal. At first he thought they were screws, but upon further examination, they began to look more like little silver worms. He slammed the lid back down with a sound that was half-groan, half-scream. This was all a waste of time. 

He stomped out in his frustration, failing to notice the pockmarked hand that reached up through the crack in the lid, inside the worm-filled box, grasping its way out.

* * *

Blood rushed through Jon’s ears and he tried desperately to think as Oliver kept talking. He kept saying things about gods and eyes and dreams, which was nonsense, it had to be. 

“...but you don’t really think I’m insane, Jon. You should be powerful enough to know when I’m lying, here. You’re just afraid to see the truth.”

No. It was complete nonsense. “That’s impossible. I have just experienced some neurological trauma, and it’s resulted in strange dreams and amnesia. It...it just hurts, because it’s some sort of injury. It feels like....” 

Oliver just nodded. “Flashes like camera bulbs fire in your brain. It’s like a strobe light on things you didn't know. You see things, things you shouldn’t know about. For me, I saw people dying, before they were dead. Sometimes, I saw the route they would take. Sometimes, just their graves.” 

Jon can feel it, can see it. It’s just a dream. 

A flash, like a photograph.

**_It hurts._ ** **She is shaking her head, defiant in her well-worn terror, and tries with every corner of her will to force back the rolling tide of words.** **_It hurts._ ** **Her fingers are still, her hands raised to her mind,** **_trying_ ** **to think,** **_trying_ ** **to comprehend.** **_It hurts._ **

A flash.

**Behind him are the ants. They move like a terrible, rolling wave along the hard-packed ground, and he can see every twitching antenna, every clenching mandible. Somewhere, underneath that twitching, burrowing mass, is the exterminator. He is screaming.**

A flash.

**Already the freezing temperature of the void was beginning to seep into her body, no matter how hard her blood fought to keep it at bay. She anxiously checked the calculations on the computer once more.**

Each felt like a blow to the area behind his eyes and to the base of his skull. Oliver nodded to him, as if he understood what was happening.

“Oh God.”

* * *

Martin sulked while Jon slept. He was on his eighth, maybe ninth research paper on amnesia, but it all seemed to be so useless. It was hard to feel like he wasn’t wasting precious time. 

He glanced over at Jon. “We really need you, Jon. Please.” 

This time, Jon didn’t wake up again for hours. Eventually, Tim came by to help carry the Captain to his quarters. There didn’t seem much point in observation, and Jon deserved the comfort of his own bed. 

Sasha, in a kind gesture, brought him a coffee. It was both awfully bitter and oversweet, but Martin forced it down. He was going to work at this all night if he had to. For multiple nights. As many as he needed to. 

He was halfway through the eleventh dense text when he noticed the noise by his door. It was equal parts fleshy and metallic, like a meat grinder on a slow, tortuous and disgusting setting. There was a loud crash. Martin nearly fell out of his chair standing up. 

In the doorway to medbay storage was a woman. He couldn’t see her face at the odd angle she held her head. Her hair was long and what was probably black, although it was hard to tell through the sticky dirt that slimed over it. She had on a grey coat that might have been nice once, but was now stained and threadbare. Every inch of her visible skin was dotted with what looked like small round spots. 

Martin held completely still. Who was this? She certainly didn’t look like a crewmate. More than that, something about the way that she stood there felt like a stomachache. There was just something obviously, nauseatingly _wrong_ about her. He couldn’t quite tell what it was. 

She shuddered, and made a sound that reminded Martin of tearing flesh. It was wet. Meaty. 

A silver worm dropped to the floor with a metallic click. It wriggled towards him.

He might have screamed. Must have, because she snapped her head up to look at him. Her face had the same dark spots covering her arms and legs. Her eyes were yellowed. He couldn’t tell if she had teeth. 

Martin stepped backwards, reaching for something, he wasn't sure what. Something to use when she attacked.  
  


She simply stood there, letting her coat fall to the floor. 

Her skin was grey, and full of those little black holes. They were holes, deep and honeycombing like a nest. Wires stretched to and connected some of them, as if she were a walking breadboard of fleshy circuitry. Inside the holes, he could see the worms. They twitched and squirmed as Martin felt the bile rise in his throat. His skin itched in sympathetic pains as he watched the writhing flesh. This wasn’t human or alien. He didn't think she was even alive. She took a step towards him. 

Worms showered the floor in shaking waves as she moved. They fell out of every cavity in her body and agonizingly made their way towards Martin. 

Martin threw his communicator at her and ran. He could feel the metal worms brushing against his legs, or at least expected to. It was late enough at night that there was no one awake in the corridor, and he thanked God for that. He ran to his quarters, a safe and homely place that was close to medbay, but separate from where the rest of the crew lived. When he reached his room he closed the door behind himself and locked it. He had just enough time to reach a trash bin on the floor and kneel by it, ready to vomit, before the world grew fuzzy and grey, and he felt himself slip from consciousness.

* * *

When Martin awoke it was dark. Not even the ship’s emergency lights were on, leaving him to try and desperately navigate from the light of his window, which itself only offered the glow of distant stars. He groped around until reaching his nightstand, and on it the scented candle he had brought from home. Thank God he liked old fashioned things, and had a little 21st century-style lighter with it. 

The room was filled with soft light and the scent of peaches. Instinctively, Martin reached for his communicator. He should call Sasha, ask her what was going on. He froze as he did it, memories from earlier crashing down at him all at once. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe and his skin itched and crawled and it was really hard not to pass out all over again. 

He heard it, then. A quiet, insistent metallic scratching at his door. He couldn’t tell you how, but he knew, he was sure it was the worms.

In a move of desperation that surprised him, Martin grabbed the lovingly made quilt from his bed and shoved it in the crack beneath the door. He grabbed his mattress and shoved that up against it. Then the table. 

There was no way he was letting her in. 

When he had finished, there was very little actual furniture in his quarters left, so he sat on the floor, facing the door. Holding the candle like a lifeline. It was almost a new candle. He hoped to god it would last a while. He didn’t think he could stand and more of the dark.

There was a knock. He could hear her worms, squirming and scraping at his door. Another knock. 

“I know you are in there, living one. Come out here and be assimilated.” 

Knock knock.

Martin took a deep, shaky breath, and pulled the candle closer. His hands seared with the warmth. 

“You’ll never be alone. Never be imperfect.”

The worms were scratching at his door. He let out a noise, torn from his throat as a half-wimper half sob. 

“Assimilate, and be loved.”

Knock knock.

* * *

Tim got a message from Martin’s the next morning, something about illness and a contagion. Right, well. That was lovely. Luckily, he could handle it. It wasn’t like the ship was going anywhere, at the moment, so all he had to do was make calls to Starfleet and keep an eye on Jon. 

Tim brought in some toast and a coffee to Jon’s quarters, only to find him still asleep. Jon seemed to be saying something in his dreams, but whatever it was, it wasn’t in a language he could understand. Vulcan, probably. 

He frowned. Jon hadn’t recognized him when he ran in to answer Martin’s emergency call. He hadn’t remembered their time together, their experiences together. 

Tim thought one of the steadfast facts of the universe was that Jon could trust him. After telling him about Danny and Jon telling him about… about what had happened to him, he thought Jon could trust him. After the time they got separated from the crew on the first mission they went on, and they scaled nearly 100 feet of sheer cliff, Jon could trust him. After Jon had his weird Vulcan breakup and told Tim about his utter dislike of sex, Jon could trust him. After the time Jon had gotten chocolate drunk and grasped him by the hand and they nearly toppled in a pile of raw emotion, Jon could absolutely trust him.

And now they were strangers. 

He left the food, and had to walk out of the room. Acting captains didn’t have time for the tears in their eyes. 

* * *

The dream had changed. They were no longer on a train, but standing on the rooftop of a tall building, overlooking a city on Earth. Jon wasn’t sure how he knew that, or how he knew that the place was called Canary Wharf. 

How did he know that? Logically, he reasoned that he had read about it somewhere or seen it on a holotape and the memory had faded into his subconscious, drawn out in a faint afterthought. Some other, more quiet part of him knew that that wasn’t quite right, either. He ignored it.

Oliver was still there, his coat billowing in the wind. For a while they just stood there, gazing over the city, which Jon somehow knew was called London. 

A question formed slowly, warily in his head. It took a pause of consideration before he resolved to ask it. “How long have I been asleep?

Oliver chuckled softly at that. “I guess I even do that here. Make you worry about how much time has gone by, how long you have left. How little you can control it.”

Jon tried not to scowl. That was all very obscure. There might not be much resembling fact when you were in a dream, but certainly you weren’t supposed to throw all means of sense out the window. Otherwise, Oliver’s cryptic speech was meant to misdirect him. That would be worse.

“You’ve probably been asleep for a few days. Enough to worry your crew, maybe, but not enough to be a big deal, yet. The question really should be about how much longer the dream has left. For your sake, I hope not long. I guess this too, shall pass.” 

What was that supposed to mean? Jon leaned away as Oliver stepped towards him. They held like that for a moment, suspended with tense eye contact. 

Oliver’s monologue was far from over. “This was where I was asked to make my choice. On a rooftop on Earth. I don’t regret the choice I made then. Whatever I am now, so much more than mortal, I think it was inevitable.” 

Jon clenched his jaw. “There are no such things,” he all but hissed, “as Gods.” 

Oliver just let out a small sigh.

“The thing is, Jon, right now you have a choice. You’ve put it off a long time, but it’s trapping you here. You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive. You’ll either live, and know and you won’t be mortal anymore, or you’ll stay mortal and wake up, and your memories, the man that you are, will die. I made a choice. We all made choices. Now you have to.”

Oliver then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Despite his small size, Jon should have been plenty strong enough to fight off a human, but he found that he couldn’t break the man’s grip. Perhaps it was an unexpected element of the dream. He fought as he was dragged closer and closer to the edge of the building, swallowed as he was forced to see the bustling city below. He flailed and grunted against the chill of the wind.

“...Make your choice, Jon.” And with that, Oliver shoved him off the side. 

* * *

Tim was going in to check on Jon, just to see if he was still asleep. Martin hadn’t been feeling any better, and now Jon wasn’t waking up. If Admiral Bouchard didn’t come to a decision soon, Tim was going to turn this ship around and get them both some proper care, Starfleet councils be damned. 

Honestly, it was the only time he ever saw Jon get this much rest. He hoped that that, at least, was good. Martin would probably know, but he wasn’t answering calls lately. Just the daily, short clipped messages let Tim know he was alive. He must be sick with something awful. 

This was all such bullshit. He took Jon’s pulse, counted his breathing, and wrote it all down. After the first day, he realized there wasn’t much point in leaving food, so the most he could do was make sure Jon was still alive. That he wasn’t getting worse. 

On the bedside table was a picture of their graduating class, all in neat rows of red and gold dress uniforms. They had stood together there. Tim grinning ear-to-ear as Jon stood rod straight.

“Shit.” He whispered, and moved to put his head in his hands.

Suddenly, with a lurch, Jon was awake. He looked animalistic, eyes wide and body flailing wildly. His arm struck out and caught Tim in the chest, knocking him back. He made a loud sputtering sound, and before Tim could stop him, Jon was struggling to get back on his feet.

“Martin! I-is he... _Where is Martin_?” 

* * *

The first thought Jon had when he was awake was like something he had never experienced before. It wasn’t worry or an instinct, or even a theory. It was solid, factual knowledge that he knew could not be anything other than true. Like the knowledge you had that objects in gravity would fall.

Martin was in danger. 

He scrambled to his feet, acting before he had time to consider it any further. Tim was in the room, doubled over and cursing. Jon didn’t have time to address him. He had to get to Martin. He grabbed the phaser he kept in his dresser. 

He heard Tim shout after him, but he was already running. Even in his weakened state, humans would be hard-pressed to keep up. 

In the same way he knew where to find his weapon, Jon knew to run from the turbolift, past sickbay. He nearly slid around the corner, trying to get where he was going faster. He reached the area of the ship where Martin alone lived, an isolated end of the hall. It was almost completely dark.

Outside his door was a woman. She looked up at him in surprise, clearly not expecting someone else to come by. Her eyes seemed to light up with recognition. 

“Archivist.” 

He pulled out his phaser and fired. 

* * *

When Tim finally caught up to Jon, he was pointing his phaser at a pile of bits of metal, and trying to get Martin’s door open. 

“Jon! Jon, wait, I!”

Jon shouted over him, apparently paying no mind. “Martin! Are you okay in there, Martin!”

They pushed through the door, and then the mountain of objects and furniture behind it. Martin was there, crying and pulling his mattress aside. In one hand he held the slim remains at the bottom of a candle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And if that was me, then who the fuck am I?"
> 
> I don't have nearly as good a memory on the Borg as I do tribbles, but I think I merged the likeness fairly well.  
> Let me know what you think!  
> Also, happy Asexual week!


	4. Dies Irae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enemy waits for something.  
> The captain and crew must decided who among them counts as a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief warning: This chapter contains many mentions of worms, paranoia, and violent threats. Nothing over cannon-typical, though.

> ### “Captain’s log, Stardate 4235.3. I have recovered from my unexpected period of amnesia, in time to assist Doctor Martin Blackwood in his altercation with an enemy aboard the ship. She appears to be armed with some kind of robotics technology, and I have reason to believe she is hiding near his quarters, in the vents of the ship. I arrived with First Officer Stoker just in time to drive her away from Martin’s rooms, where he had been held hostage for nearly three days. Even after a full blast from a phaser, the enemy was able to attack me with a single device, which was extracted--”

* * *

“Are you recording right now? Seriously?” Martin said in a scolding, almost scandalized tone, as if he couldn’t fathom how Jon would have to nerve to do his job as captain. “Jon, you’re still bleeding out of your arm! You’ve barely just come from a coma, _apparently,_ and regained your memories. Why are you making a log?”

“I --ah. There needs to be a record. In case something happens. It’s only logical. They wouldn’t have had to send us out here at all if Smirke had done it.” Jon tried to gesture, then winced. 

“Ah, ah.” Martin tutted like a concerned mother from a movie. “Don’t move that.” 

Jon watched warily as Martin took out some dressings and a roll of gauze. “Let me see your arm, please.” 

Jon was careful not to flinch, while he carefully pulled the sleeve away and began to wash the hole. It wasn’t deep like the ones in the woman’s body, but it was painful, and the corkscrew that had been jammed into his flesh had not helped with the agony. He had to commend Martin on the impromptu surgery, as it did effectively remove the worm, but the tear of his skin looked even worse now. The sterile liquid on it stung. 

“You know, Captain,” Martin said, his tone serious, even as he focused his eyes on the wound he was now bandaging. “I appreciate the rescue, I really, really do. But, sir, you have to be more careful. Running in like that… it was really reckless.’

Jon stiffened. He was fully aware that his instinct to jump into the fray based on the vague knowledge that Martin was in danger was not very rational of him. He wasn’t about to relate that sort of weakness to his crew, however. Especially not Martin. He thought about how to respond as Martin finished wrapping up his arm and tugged his sleeve back down gently. 

“I calculated my options. I needed to minimize the damage,” Jon finally replied. It wasn’t a lie. 

Martin made a deeply emotional, human expression that Jon couldn’t quite place. “But you could have been badly hurt, or worse.”

“The n--” Jon began to say, but it all died in his throat very quickly as Martin reached out and was looking into his eyes and Martin _took his hand._

“Jon.” Martin was speaking, but Jon himself could hardly hear it over the flood of so much, so very much feeling into himself.

_Jon, Jon, Jon._ Martin thought, Martin felt. It all flooded in at once, in a way that shook Jon to his core. _You stupid, ridiculous man. I need you to be okay. He saved me. Please be safe. His hands are nice. I need you. I think it’d be weird to say his ears are cute. You idiot man. I wonder if all half-Vulcans have messy hair. I’m so glad you’re okay. I care about you. He’s got his memory back. I wish you’d like me. I--_

Martin’s feelings hit harder than a blow to the chest. Jon could feel the rapid pulse against his thumb as the sensation swept into him. Martin was a planet’s worth of worry, which really should have been expected; but there was so much more than that. Choking Jon so that he can barely breathe, Martin was a galaxy of fondness and love. It knocked the wind out of Jon, drained and filled him entirely. Jon thought he might faint, looking up at Martin’s eyelashes, not able to completely meed his eyes, and barely withstanding the wave of caring he is radiating.

He had melded with a Tim before, once, on accident, and once or twice with Georgie. Neither time had affected him quite like this. 

“Jon! Are you okay?” Martin was looking at him, speaking to him. _You’re suddenly very tense._ Martin thought. 

Jon all but collapsed onto the hospital bed. “Doctor, I still require medical attention.”

“Oh! Right.” Martin pulled his hand away, and immediately Jon felt a great sense of loss. Some part of him wanted to know what Martin thought, what Martin felt all of the time. He wanted to inspect his every detail.

Jon took that part of him and buried it very, very deep. He was a logical man. He was a professional. It was none of his concern, who Martin loved. 

_Martin loved him._

* * *

Martin was exhausted. Three days pacing the corners of his room, rummaging for a last-resort weapon, reading and re-reading the few physical books that he had. Then the captain had shown up, and through the tears in his eyes, Martin had never seen a more welcome sight. His poor heart had reached its limits. Hearing Jon’s voice through the door might as well have been a chorus of angels. So much for desperately staying out of love.

And now this _lovely, stupid, heroic, and infuriating_ man was in his medbay, refusing to rest himself while Martin went through the motions he had learned so well while he was a lowly assistant. He even got to ever-so-briefly hold Jon’s hand. As if he wasn’t already going to have a hard time getting over this crush.

All of it was almost enough to make him forget the worst of what had happened. Almost.

He was putting away all the kit from treating Jon’s wounds when he noticed it. A tiny, silver glimmer out of the corner of his eye. _Medbay storage._ Oh, Christ. _Worms._

“Jon!” He shouted, scooping up all the gauze and disinfectant into his arms. “W-worms! We have to go.” Oh shit, oh shit. 

Martin grabbed as much as he could in terms of supplies. The bag for away missions. His computer pad. The box where he kept his tribble. He kept a close eye on the worm, now becoming a steady stream of small, crawling things. All over again, there was that feeling, like _things_ were scratching their way into his skin, connecting with his nerves. 

Oh, God.

He felt a strong but shaky hand on his arm, and a steady tug. Before he could process what was going on, Jon was pulling him away and they were running, running. Jon might have been shouting something, but Martin couldn’t hear through the blood pounding in his ears. 

The door to medbay slammed behind them, and a force shield went up over it. Jon kept running, kept yelling, so Martin followed. After they had made it out of the hall, another force shield sealed behind them. Jon slowed to a stop and then collapsed against the wall. Martin was about ready to follow suit. The stuff in his arms plummeted to the floor, though the tribble remained in his grip.

There was a flash of red in front of him, and without thinking, Martin lunged forwards. It was the worm lady in her red dress, he was sure of it. If he acted now, she probably wouldn’t yet get to Jon. 

Instead, he found himself held by his arm twisted behind his back by Daisy, in her red security shirt. “Easy, Blackwood,” she murmured. When she released him, Martin found himself in a heap on the floor. Had she shoved him, or did his knees give way? 

Sasha ran up and helped him stand. “Thank God the protocols for sealing off areas of the ship still work. Unfortunately, we won’t be getting to use Medbay anytime soon. Or your quarters.”

Martin gingerly picked up the pile of things from the floor and tried to regain some degree of composure. He tried to say something about it, but all he could make was a jumbled stammer. 

“There’s a cot in my office,” Jon’s voice sounded behind him. He managed to sound so smooth, so calm despite how out of breath he must have been. “Martin can stay there until further notice. As for amenities, he can share with Tim or myself as necessary.” 

It took a moment for what Jon was saying to actually register. Jon was giving him his office. To sleep in. To be safe. That was by far the nicest thing that the captain had ever done for him. “Oh. Okay… Thanks.” Maybe he had fainted and was dreaming. 

“I’ll talk to Daisy about extra security measures, but the bridge is designed to be difficult to siege. It’s the safest area of the ship, and the easiest to seal. If the enemy is after you specifically, it’s the most logical place for you to stay.” 

Right. He wasn’t being nice, this was tactical. That made sense. Martin didn’t have it in him to feel his heart drop. This all had been way too much.

Tim looked them both over. When had he gotten there? Martin was having trouble keeping track. “Okay, as acting captain, I’m ordering you both to take a hot shower and settle in, we’ll call a briefing in eight or so hours.” 

Jon began to speak, and Tim cut him off. “No. I know that look. Martin needs a good rest, and I need to talk to you for a long while before you get to be back in charge. Sorry, boss.” Tim’s determined expression did not look in the least sorry. “Martin, feel free to use my bathroom for now.”

* * *

The briefing established all that they knew, which was unfortunately little. Still, Jon did find that he was more in control now that he had switched out of his worm-bitten clothes and cleaned off the accumulated blood and dirt on his body. 

It was obvious that there was no killing the enemy currently inhabiting a whole sector of their ship. Jon’s phaser at full power had done little other than scare her away, and there was her entire army to contend with. However, she seemed to be unable to move from the area where they sealed her, which bought them time. Hopefully enough time to do some research. Martin would just have to live with sleeping in Jon’s office for now. 

Jon accessed the cameras throughout the ship and took to watching them. Since his office had become unofficially Martin’s space, he took to doing his work in the quarters, leaned up against the foot of his bed, or primly sat at the small kitchen table. 

Tim had found a name for the face of their foe. Jane Prentiss. She was an attendant on the first-ever ship to come out here, a mysterious vessel called the USS Rider-Waite. There was no record of what had become of the Rider-Waite, barely any record of it all, save for its relation to Prentiss’s name and a pre-launch photograph. In the picture, there was a man Jon clearly recognized as the man from his dream. Oliver Banks. 

Impossible. He was coming up with illogical conjecture. Jon needed to focus. He shared the information he found on Prentiss with the others. She was born on a space station near earth, had a wife and a career as a research attendant, and then left on her last mission 10 years ago. There was no record of her since. Jon had checked and double-checked.

Prentiss herself was just standing in Martin’s bedroom. Every time Jon checked the camera, she was there, gathering her worm-devices in a neat circle around herself. She stared expectantly back at the camera in a way that made Jon’s already-cool blood run cold. Like she was waiting for something. Or someone. 

While Prentiss herself had been a dead-end, Jon was able to find information on the worms. They were called by many names by the few who survived it. The Borg. The Collective. The Hive. They were a technological race that ravaged entire civilizations, leaving nothing behind but worm-ridden victims that served their cause. No one knew where it came from, but very few, if any, survived an encounter. The other important fact Jon discovered about the Hive was its ability to infiltrate. All it took was a single worm to make its way into the victim, expand its assimilating circuitry, and someone you’ve known your entire life would serve an enemy they hardly knew.

Knowing that gave a new, chilling context to Prentiss’s waiting smile. 

The burst of knowledge, intuition from a force more real than anything Jon had before experienced returned to him. Jon was struck with the knowledge, the certainty that one of his crew was not as they seemed. Images of pulsing circuitry under skin and hair, bits of wire, and silicon flooded into his head. 

A cold realization, not of knowing but of natural conclusions came to Jon. Someone had to have put that box in medbay. Someone had brought Prentiss onto their ship before they even left the station. He needed to know who it was, before they took the ship down. 

His first response was to contact Starfleet, message in to Elias, but as he reached for his monitor, he hesitated. Elias was just as likely to be involved as anyone. This was something he needed to figure out for himself. 

* * *

In a few days, Jon was able to do composite research on each and every member of the USS Magnus. There was something suspicious about each of them, he decided. 

Tim was the easiest. Jon knew him for long enough that there wasn’t much point in looking up his past except to confirm what he already knew. He grew up on Earth, he and his brother joined Starfleet at 18 following the death of his parents. Danny disappeared while in his first mission as a First Officer, and Tim spent his time dedicated to the command track, hoping one day to have enough ranking to find out what really happened. Jon wanted to dismiss him, mark him down as safe. Someone he knew. 

But there was the question that had bothered him since the first day of their mission. Why was Tim there? He was qualified enough to be the captain of a much more important vessel, so why would he sign up to be first officer on a small investigation? He doubted it was just because they were friends. 

Daisy and Basira were strangers to him, and he didn’t like the holes in their record. They had clearly worked together for a long time, and records show they both previously worked on justice or judicial missions. However, their last few missions were censored under a classified label. Section 31, whatever that meant. 

Then there was Martin. Infuriating, incompetent Martin who had sabotaged his ship on day one. It didn’t matter that Martin had melded with him unintentionally, that he felt loved in that moment. It had to be a lie. Jon was a cold, unfeeling and yet irrationally selfish half-vulcan, at least according to his ex. People just didn’t go about loving him. Especially not with how dismissive he’d been. That made Martin his prime suspect. 

If that was the case, why attack him? Jon looked at the video of Prentiss, starting up at him from the screen. Was it all a trick?

He was not going to think of the sensation of Martin’s hand over his, nor the fuzzy ache it left in him. He definitely did not want to think about asking Martin to do that again. _Hey, remember when you unknowingly crossed a boundary of incredible intimacy and nearly broke me in the process? Do it again._ That would just be falling for his game, whatever it was. 

Not to mention Sasha...Sasha’s record was completely blank. Maybe it was just because of her own computer-based ingenuity, but it couldn’t be a coincidence.

He reached for a data card where he kept notes on the ship itself, something he had compiled before they set off, before realizing that it was still in his office. He’d have to walk over to the bridge, past everyone and face Martin to get to it. 

There was no avoiding it. Jon took a deep, meditative breath before grabbing his phaser and his communicator and heading towards the bridge. Luckily, it was late, and most of the crew should be eating in the dining hall, or finding activities for leisure. Basira or Tim might be the only people on the bridge. That would be ideal.

Basira was there, face buried in her reading. She had the ability to focus herself beyond everything in the room. At the moment she was likely so engrossed in her translation that she likely wouldn’t notice Jon if he started thrashing wildly about on the floor. It was impressive.

It was also, in this case, useful. Jon didn’t have to worry about carefully creeping past, and so he marched over to the door to his office. He hesitated by the door to see if Martin was in. 

Inside, he heard a soft, sad voice.

“Hey, Mum. I know, I know, it’s only been a week. I… I just needed someone to talk to. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what happened this week. I think it’d be classified anyway. I hope you’re doing alright? I know the nurses said you were sick last week…”

Good Lord, he was composing a letter to his mother.

“I’m worried, Mum. It’s dangerous out here, and well. I’m worried about the others finding out I’ve been lying. And I... I don’t think I can handle that. Gosh, the Captain…” 

Jon burst through the door, drawing his phaser.

“J-Jon! What?!” Martin stumbled backward. “Sorry, I--” 

Jon pointed his phaser at him. “Sit down.” 

“What is--” Martin’s eyes grew wide and he got very, very pale. He sat, hands up placatingly.

“Sit.” Jon tried to keep his face straight and cold, even as he realized that staring down someone the size of Martin was rather futile.

“You’re lying to me, Martin.” Jon gestured with the phaser. “Lying. About. What?” 

Martin stammered and tried to move away from him in the chair. “I-”

“Did you let Jane Prentiss on this ship?” 

“What? No! Jon, I don’t know anything about that. Please, can’t you just forget I said anything?” 

“I _can’t_ forget it. Everyone in this place has so many goddamn secrets and I can’t trust a word you say. Someone let Prentiss onto this ship, is working with her to sabotage our mission--” 

“Jon, just--” The red-hot feelings in Jon found themselves bubbling out in a rush. He slammed his free hand into the desk, leaving a sizable crack.

“ _Martin!”_ He shouted, forcible enough to make him flinch violently.

“Okay! Okay, okay. Just don’t-- don’t tell anyone.” 

Jon wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or to snarl. He settled for a scoff. “Fine.”

He watched, scrutinizing, as Martin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his strong shoulders shook as he took a deep breath.

“I lied on my application. “

“...What?”

“Damnit, Jon, I’m not a doctor, I’m a medical assistant. I don’t even have a degree. 

I was 17, barely into the academy when my mum, she-- I ended up needing access to medical research, and the better job, I just started to lie on my applications. A doctor I knew helped me forge the license. I just needed to access this experimental medication for my Mum. 

“For some reason, Elias insisted that I take missions for him. I kept denying him over and over again through the years. This is the first time I’ve accepted. But all of my educational experience, it’s made up. I’m only 29.” 

The rage slowly drained out of Jon, until he was able to regain control. He stood back up, not realizing he had pressed close to Martin, hunched over his shrinking form. This… he hadn’t meant to do this. He set down the phaser.

He let out a shaky relieved sound, nearly a laugh. “Right. I-I… believe you.”

“...so, that’s it then? You don’t mind?”

“To be quite honest, Martin, I’m rather relieved.” 

* * *

Basira wasn’t blind, or dumb. She could hear perfectly well the conversation that went down in Jon’s office. It wouldn’t normally be her business, except, well, it was obvious that Jon was no longer being rational. She needed to take it up with the first officer. 

It would be logical to take it up with everyone, actually. 

They called the meeting in the dining hall. Watching Tim become overcome with fury at the idea that Jon pointed a phaser at Martin caused her to question the benefits of having this conversation with everyone. She sent a look to Daisy. The way things were going, Tim might need to be restrained. 

He smashed his hands into the table and bellowed at her as she explained what he heard. There was a distinctly human look in his eye, one of betrayal and pain turned anger, because he was never taught what else to do with them.

She didn’t end up needing to act, thankfully, as it appears while she had overestimated the first officer, she had completely underestimated the doctor. 

“Tim. Look, we just gotta let him work through this. He’s under a lot of pressure. You know how messed up he’s been since...” 

“How messed up _he’s_ been!?”

Martin used the same nervous, placating tone he’d used on Jon not hours before. “Of course, I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that you weren’t, just...”

“Just. What.”

“Maybe try talking to him.”

“Sure, like he won’t point a phaser at me, too? Martin, he tried to kill you.”

“He didn’t mean it, Tim. He wouldn’t.”

out 

The room watched the two of them go back and forth like this. The rage slowly simmered off of Tim as Martin meekly, quietly defended Jon. Basira wondered if the doctor was saying things he believed, or things he believed Tim needed to hear. She decided she was glad for it, whatever the case.

When the steam in Tim was no longer boiling over, the men were interrupted by Sasha, speaking clearly, with some unidentifiable emotion in her voice. “We’ll stage an intervention.” 

* * *

Jon went right back to watching Prentiss. He might be losing control, control of his crew, his emotions, his everything; but he _needed_ to watch her. She could have any number of his crew, but she wouldn’t have him. He was smarter than that, and he was still in control of himself.

There was a knock on his door. Martin’s stuttering voice came through. “J-Jon?”

After a moment's consideration, Jon realized he had no excuse not to let him in. “Come in.”

Not just Martin, but his entire crew marched in. Jon didn’t think he’d ever seen such animosity on Tim’s face, such sharp an examination from Sasha. Martin looked terrified. He felt his heart rate pick up. They must hate him. It almost confirmed his suspicions.

“What is this?”

Sasha started, stepping forwards. “We care about you, Jon, and you’ve been rather erratic since the Prentiss incident.”

“And we’d really like-” Martin started.

“To not have to lock you up,” Daisy interrupted. Her eyes met Jon’s, and it took all his mental fortitude not to blink.

“-To make sure you’re doing okay,” Martin finished.

“You’re surveilling everything,” said Tim.

“You’ve accessed our personal files, our histories, our parents.” Sasha. Of course, she would have noticed.

“You pulled a weapon on me and said I was lying,” Martin added.

“I - that is to say- I..”

“How can we prove to you we’re not working with the enemy, Jon?”

“No, I… I don’t _know.”_ Any of them could be infected by Prentiss. They could be waiting for his guard to fall, to hurt him, to hurt the others. 

“Jon, this is absurd. This is beyond illogical, and you know it’s dangerous. There is no benefit to this behavior. Control yourself immediately.” Basira’s voice, the tone so similar to the one his grandmother took after she found him looking frightened or angry. It was condescending, cold, but concerned. 

“You still don’t trust us, do you?” Tim’s voice. Jon remembered how easy it was to trust Tim, how simple it was. He could hear the fury in his words, a sad, bitter anger. 

“No. Not yet.” Jon replied softly. He tried to keep from sounding dejected. “I’m sorry, but I need _evidence.”_

* * *

Sasha hadn’t really expected Tim to arrive at her door, after it all settled down, but it wasn’t surprising, either. Perhaps it was their thing, now. Tim couldn’t go to Jon, not when things were so tense. So he came to her. 

To Sasha, all that mattered was that he was her friend, and he needed her. Jon would eventually come around, and that was okay. She let him in. 

The time went by easily enough. Tim had plenty of things to say to try and lighten the mood, and she had enough non-alcoholic wine and potato chips to settle everything else. He talked a lot about his previous adventures, careful to not mention anything relating to Jon. She didn’t pry, as much as she wanted to. Just quipped cheerfully back at him and laughed. 

In return, she told him about her life. Growing up on Earth. Her first try with a soldering iron, and where it had left a blistering scar. He laughed when she told him about how the first date she ever went on was an excuse to get into a museum and closer to humanity’s first warp engine, something that was much more exciting than her actual date. 

It was nice. He fell asleep on the sofa she kept in the small main room of her space, by the cluttered table of technical journals and half-done projects. It was probably the first chance he’d gotten in a while. She left him with a throw blanket.  
  
Softly from behind her came a laugh like a headache. 

“Michael?” She whirled around, whispering his name harshly. “How did you-?” 

The tall blonde man stood in front of a door in her room that didn’t exist. Where there should have been an empty wall with a painting, there was now a bright yellow entry, slightly ajar. 

“Sahsa! Looks like you’ve been busy since we last met. I’ve come to a decision. _I’m going to help you._ ”

Sasha gasped and opened her mouth to speak. He cut her off.

“Because we’re friends, see. And that’s what friends do. Even if I am a bit of a lie. So.” He reached out his arm, spanning a much larger distance than he should have realistically been able to. “You’re going to need this.” He gave her a cold, modern-looking cylinder. After a moment she recognized the canister. It contained CO2. They used them to prevent fires sometimes. 

“And… what’s all this for?” Sasha asked deliberately. 

“For the Hive, of course! The Collective. Your captain doesn't know what it is yet, but he’ll learn. He’ll learn much more than he really should. He thinks this is a typical enemy, but that’s mortals for you, Sasha. They judge themselves against the pitiful adversaries they have encountered so far. The Romulans, the Klingons. They are nothing compared to what's waiting. Sasha, you and your captain are about to move into areas of the galaxy containing wonders more incredible than you can possibly imagine. Isn’t that interesting?” He sounded amused.

Sasha wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. “CO2 works on the worms? What else can you tell me about them?” 

That laugh again. “Ah, archives. I wonder if they always draw in people like this. All the _questions._ ” He sat down on her table, paying the sleeping Tim no mind. “The Borg is the ultimate enemy. They're unlike any threat your Federation has ever faced. They're not interested in political conquest, wealth or power as you know it. They're simply interested in your ship, its technology. They've identified it as something they can consume. And they’ll be a problem for you, soon.” He said this like someone might suggest it was going to rain.

Sasha was about to ask another question when something about Michael got… wavier. “Oh. That’s not very good. I leave you, Sasha.” With that, he turned and disappeared through the door. It all became very painful to look at.

When she blinked, the door was gone, and so was he. Sasha set down the canister and tried to get some sleep. 

* * *

Jon had no good reason to believe Sasha, and even if he trusted her, there was even less reason to trust this ‘Michael’. Still, he had no power to stop his crew from producing and distributing container after container of CO2. 

A glance at the ship’s surveillance told him that she was in engineering now, likely trying to find a way to rig the gas into the ship’s environmental system. As long as it did not serve as a threat to himself, which it barely did, Jon could worry about the changes later. 

Prentiss was still standing in that same spot, smiling and staring. 

He lifted his little alien recording device. He used it religiously now, his only confidant, as he annotated every new detail in his investigation. If something were to happen to him, well. At least he’d be slightly less of a mystery. 

Sasha and Martin brought him food or tea every few hours. Jon politely took it, set it on his desk, and ignored it. It could be poisoned. He didn’t have any time. 

Martin reached out for him once, and Jon was nearly tempted to reach back. A little mind-meld could tell him all he needed to know about trust. But he held himself back. Jon wasn’t that kind of man.

Sasha brought in a new suspicious tray as he was recording. Jon startled at her approach, shoving his chair backward. The shelf behind him came crashing down.

“Alright?” She asked, helping him up.

“Ah. Yeah.” He stood, eyeing the tray she had as she stared at the damage behind him. “What?”

Sasha gestured behind him at a hole in the wall of the ship. It must have been dented when he hit the shelf. He told her as much.

“No, it -it goes right through. I -I thought… there’s no way to breach this wall, it’s the same material as the ship’s hull.”

“It should be.”

Jon heard motion from behind the wall. It was quiet, almost unassuming. He looked closer. 

“Sasha, run. RUN!”

* * *

Sasha watched Jon jerk back from the walls, a stream of worms pushing their way through. Black slime and silver creatures oozed onto the floor and flooded over towards them. She sprinted for the door, only to hear a crash as Jon tripped over his chair, running towards- towards his desk?

“What are you doing?!” She shouted. They needed to get out of there.

“Almost…” Jon snatched the recording device off the table, forgoing his phaser and communicator. 

“Leave it, it’s not-” 

“Got it!” She watched in horror as worms gathered around his legs and he barely noticed. He clutched the small thing triumphantly, as if he wasn’t about to get torn into by a million metal things burying into his flesh. She leapt towards him, snatched his sleeve and yanked. She’d drag him along if she had to. Stubborn, stupid man.

Martin was in the hall, a CO2 canister on his back and a cup of tea in his hands. 

“Guys? Is everything- OH CHRIST!” His voice spiked up and octave, and the hot cup shattered onto the floor.

“Shut up and use the goddamn CO2!” Jon barked at him, clearly as panicked as they were. The gravity of the situation must have finally hit him.

Martin stammered out a chant of “right, right, yep.” as Jon continued to yell at him, but he did grab the canister and spray. 

The worms writhed with high-pitched screaming sounds, like metal in the cold. The ones that were directly hit with the foam stopped moving, but more poured out of the wall in droves. 

“There’s too many!” Martin shrieked, backing up rapidly into the hall. Sasha begged him to keep spraying, but she could tell he was right. It wasn’t enough. 

This time, Jon grabbed both of them. “We need to go!” 

They took off towards the bridge. Behind them, with the approach of the disgusting wave of worm and sludge, the lights began to shut off in the hall. Jon was able to seal the door to the bridge, but as soon as he did, the lights in there shut off as well. Sasha could see Martin tremble, shakes running down through his large form.

Behind the door, a tinny, inhuman voice began to sing. _Come home_ , it pleaded. _Join us. Assimilate._

Martin pulled them both back into Jon’s office and activated a force shield around the door. They couldn’t hear the singing in there. For a minute, they all just collapsed against the nearest surface. 

Martin was the first to move, scrambling to lift through his clothing and check his body for holes. Sasha realized what he was doing and moved to do the same. Her arms and legs screamed with the urge to run still, but her skin was unblemished. No holes, thankfully. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

“And there we go. Recording again.” Martin said, handing the small device back to Jon. Sasha felt relief hit her. If Jon was still insistent on making his little records, and Martin was still smitten enough to help him, they must be doing at least somewhat alright.

The brief illusion of safety gave her enough room to think. 

“Why record it?” She found herself asking, as Jon tried to get his computer pad to work.

“What?” He replied, glancing up at her. 

“Before, in your quarters. It, it was stupid to go after that square like that, and when you were about to drop it-”

“I’m sorry. If I’d known…”

“No, it’s- it’s fine, just... I don’t understand.” She wasn’t angry with him. Even with all his weird stuff lately, it was hard to hate the captain. 

“I...I refuse to become another mystery,” Jon admitted, his eyes downturned but burning. He clenched his fists with a strength that could probably bend steel. “Look, even if you ignore the robotic compost bin out there, and the fact that we are probably minutes from death, there is something more happening in this sector. Everything we investigate leads into something deeper and more dangerous. And to top it all, we still don’t know what happened to _the Millbank._ If we die, as wormfood or from cursed tablets, or something else, I’m going to make sure that the next ship they send knows _exactly_ what happened.”

They sat in silence with that. Sasha realized that there was more meaning to Jon’s little exposition. He was sharing something personal with her and Martin without the slightest hesitation. Apparently, nearly dying next to someone was enough evidence that he could trust them, at least for now.

She busied herself with helping them access the camera feed. “Any sign of Prentiss?” She asked, switching from view to view.

“No, she’s gone from Medbay. Worms everywhere, though,” Martin said, gesturing to another hallway with a speckled, wiggling floor. 

They found Daisy and Basira near the cargo bay. Daisy had run out of CO2 and was firing her phaser at big patches of worms on the floor, watching the spots sizzle before being re-filled with their still crawling comrades. Basira was struggling to get the door open. 

On another camera, Tim was running at top speed down the hall towards the bridge. Sasha nearly teared up with relief, only to have her blood run cold. 

Jane Prentiss herself waited outside the door to the bridge, slumped against the door. 

“Oh God,” she blurted. “He doesn't know. He doesn't see her.” 

She screamed at the screen, despite knowing he couldn’t hear her. “Tim, look out!!” 

“Oh no, no, no, no,” Martin muttered behind her. Tim was just about to turn the corner. “No, Tim, just run!”

Something about the idea of staying high and dry while Tim got eaten by worms in front of her broke something in Sasha. Suddenly, it was no longer about how afraid she was. 

“Ah, screw this.”

Ignoring the protests of Jon, she deactivated the field and opened the door.

* * *

Martin watched, frozen as Sasha burst through the door to the bridge, wielding her CO2 canister. He watched as she took it above her head and swung at Prentiss, throwing her back like a wet, worm-infested rag. 

He had a vague idea that Jon was re-sealing the door behind him, but couldn’t tear his attention from the screen. 

Sasha was running, now, wildly spraying CO2 behind her. Martin felt himself gasp as she nearly collided with Tim. Oh, God. They were going to die and it was his fault. They were going to die out there, covered in worms and alone, it was his fault for opening that stupid box and waking up the monster inside. For leading her out past his room.

“They’re dead.” he found himself whispering, quietly.

“We don’t know that. We need to think logically right now. There’s no evidence that they’re dead,” Jon replied. His voice was even, but it was a fake, empty calm. 

“Seriously. You’re going with that, again?” Martin felt the poison leech into his words before he could stop them. Maybe now wasn’t the time to confront Jon on his denial of feelings. Especially not while they were both about to die; fear and anger stuck to his every thought like black mold.

On the other hand, when else would it happen?

“Why do you do that?” Martin asked, trying and failing to sound less indignant, less outraged.

“Do what?” 

“Pretend you’re above feeling? Above finding all of this weird and terrifying like the rest of us. I nearly believed it when I met you, but after everything… I’ve seen you panic, I’ve seen you act furiously and irrationally _at me in this very office._ The things that happen here, the cursed memory-wiping artifacts, long demon men, _space clowns,_ those aren’t logical, either. For god’s sake, Jon, we’re hiding from some kind of cybernetic worm queen… thing, how, how can you pretend you’re not scared?” Martin wasn’t able to keep the concern from his voice as it cracked and wobbled, but he didn’t stop until he was done. 

“Of course I’m afraid, Martin. Of course I am. Have you seen what we’re up against? That’s enough to threaten the most disciplined Vulcan. Even before that, I- of course I’ve had _emotions._ I’m half Vulcan, not a computer program. _”_

“Then _why_ do you-”

“ _Because_ I’m afraid, Martin! Because even now, it feels like I’m being watched. Yes, there’s a lot of pressure on me as a captain, but it’s more than that. I think I’m losing myself a bit. Losing control. It’s like… if I admit it, I think whoever’s watching will notice I’m slipping. Will _know_ somehow. Detaching myself, pretending I’ve got a handle on it, it felt safer.”

“Well, it’s not.” Martin said this with certainty. It wasn’t comfort or blame, it was a fact. Jon was putting himself and all of them in more danger with this nonsense. He’d figured that out that bit while looking down the barrel of a phaser.

“No. No, it isn’t,” Jon replied, and Martin stared at him. There was a resigned, tired sadness in his eyes. The vulnerability in him ate at Martin. It was so hard to resent him, even after all that he’d recently done, when he saw Jon like this. Here, in this room, was evidence that the man who’d first been his untouchable boss and then his noble hero was actually just a man. A lovely, struggling man that was awkward and afraid.

Jon looked him in the eye, but something in his expression made Martin think that maybe he was speaking to himself as much as he was talking to Martin. “You, you know what? No. I’m- I’m done with that. No more paranoia. It’s almost got all of us killed now, and you’re right. If I am, uh, slipping then I need people I can trust. I… I don’t think that it can happen naturally for s-someone like me, so I’m making a decision. Martin, I trust you. All of you.” God, his eyes. Martin was going to cry.

He wasn’t sure if the thrum of his heart was breaking or soaring.

* * *

Tim followed Sasha into the main workshop of engineering. “What are we-?” 

She looked wild, manic. Determined. Her hair was blown out around her, her face was beginning to develop a decent sized bruise. There was foam on her clothes. It was a good look on her, really. 

She grabbed his hand. Right, he needed to focus. They were about to die. She pulled something and an alarm sounded on the ship. It might have been the fire alarm. 

“You stand there!” She ordered. “I’m going to need to reroute some things manually. When I tell you to, activate the cycle for airflow, and turn that valve.” She pointed to a sizable wheel on the wall. 

Then he was left, bewildered, as she scrambled up an impossible looking series of ladders and barrels and pipes. A big clear tube near the top seemed to be her objective. 

He moved some boxes of scrap up against the shut door. There was no telling how long it would be before Prentiss caught up.

As if on cue, the door began to slam and shake. Shit. Tim jumped and fidgeted with the only canister of CO2 they had left. Well, there were probably worse ways to go down. And if they were gonna make it through him, which they probably would, well. He wanted it to _hurt._ Behind him, he grabbed onto something solid and metallic. Welding equipment.

“How long, Sash?” He called behind him, grabbing the torch. 

“Maybe 20 minutes! Hopefully less.” She yelled back.

A silver thing appeared from under the pile of scrap. He sprayed it. More came out from where it was. 

“I don’t know if we have 20 minutes.” He tested the white-hot flame. It roared to life, and the light burned at his eyes. Well, it would certainly do in a pinch. 

_Bang. Bang._ The door shuddered again, this time denting in the process. She was stronger than she had been when she attacked Martin’s quarters.

Behind him, Sasha cried out. Something went clattering to the floor. “It’s fine!” She reassured him, sounding strained. 

_Bang_. The door was nearly open now. Worms were at his feet, and he sprayed them until the canister began to sputter, then did his best to stamp them down. 

“Now, Tim!” 

He sprinted to the panel, slamming his palm down on the button. Then he pushed into the wheel with all his gym-practiced muscle, hearing it scream as he got it to rotate. There was a hissing sound, and then clouds started to gather near the vents of the room. 

_We’re just a million miles from home._

He picked up the welding torch and faced the door. A damaged hand, sinuous and sparking, reached through the door. She was through. He charged. 

Sasha screamed.

* * *

Tim blinked. His head was fuzzy. The air around him felt heavy, and yet somehow too thin. 

He smelled smoke. 

Sitting up, he found himself in a pile of scorched worms. Ugh. Beside him were the charred remains of Jane Prentiss. It looked like he’d done a pretty good job of turning her into a crisp. 

The worms he hadn’t managed to set on fire were lying still. Between that and the headache, he thought Sasha must have managed with the CO2. That was good.

He let out a small, exhausted but relieved laugh. “Sasha, we did it!” He looked up to find her.

There was nothing. 

“Sasha?” A pile of rubble, pipework and scaffolding signaled the place where she had just been perched, reaching up at the air ducts. Something shifted beneath it.

“Sasha!” With his limited, gassed-out strength Tim moved as much stuff as he could, feeling sluggish, moving way too slowly. “I got you!” 

Coughing and dusty, Sasha slowly appeared. “Tim. I-”

Tim’s face lit up and he moved to embrace her, when he noticed. Across Sasha’s scalp and brow, there was a giant gash.

It wasn’t bleeding.

Inside, blinking and sparking, was a set of circuits and wires. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not so many Mechs references here, even though I wanted to do something for Pump Shanty. It all felt too dense. 
> 
> Apologies for the delay, it's been an interesting and stressful week.  
> Hope you liked this chapter!
> 
> Edit(18/11): Fixed an incongruity with Tim's backstory.


	5. Pathetique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Discovery of the USS Millbank, and a mysterious stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this chapter describes the dead, violent and depressive thinking, and intoxication. Again, nothing worse than in canon.

> ###  “Captain’s log, Stardate 4242.5. We have finally removed all traces left by the attack of Jane Prentiss. We can expect to get back on schedule, for the most part. I’ve decided it would be best to continue the search for the USS Millbank, and I have reason to believe we’re closer than ever. There’s just the matter of Sasha… Or rather what we thought was Sasha. She--it. _It’s_ being kept locked up in security for the time being. First Officer Stoker seems convinced that she’s been overtaken by Prentiss, by the Hive, but I’m not so sure. It doesn't feel the same. I _know_ what Prentiss is like, what she does. I can’t help but _know_ that this is somehow different. I just need time to prove it. And if Tim and Basira say she should be in the holding cell, well. It seems logical.”

Jon sighed and leaned forward in his chair. He was back in his office, having allowed Martin to return to his own quarters. If Martin showed up once every so often requesting to sleep in the office again, Jon did not complain, nor did he draw attention to the obvious tremble in his voice. He was seeing a lot of Martin, now.

Martin, who brought him breakfast most mornings, who offered to check the crew and himself for worms and for computer components as often as Jon needed. Martin, who despite his own restless nights bothered Jon incessantly about lack of sleep. 

That morning, Martin had brought his breakfast and tea, and expressed his concerns about Tim. 

“He’s not okay right now, Jon. I think he could really use more than a Captain from you right now.”

Jon didn’t know what to think. As far as he had noticed, Tim was coping well, considering the circumstances. At least, that’s what it looked like from his work. Tim had gone above and beyond what was expected for their investigation, especially given the circumstances. He told Martin as much.

“Has it occurred to you that that is  _ exactly _ what someone trying to avoid thinking about something devastating would do? Throw themselves into their work?” Martin asked, not quite meeting his eyes. Jon got the distinct impression that this conversation wasn’t just about Tim. 

Jon pressed his hands into the cool surface of his desk and stared into his soup, before wrenching his gaze upwards at the doctor. He wasn’t actually a doctor, was he? Just Martin. 

“We came out here with a  _ mission,  _ Martin. Now that none of my crew is in immediate danger for once, I would like to get on with it. The rest of this mess can be addressed in due time. We don’t have time for everyone’s feelings on the matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to this report.” He kept his voice steady and sharp. 

Martin let out a puff of air, halfway between a scoff and a sigh. Jon narrowed his eyes, still holding his gaze. Some unspoken communication passed between them.

“Okay, okay. I’m just concerned, is all. I’ll be in medbay, if you need me.” Martin looked disappointed. Jon was just fine with ignoring the Sasha issue until they got back to Starfleet, thank you. Elias had insisted that finding  _ the Millbank  _ was of the utmost importance, and that Jon was trusted to fulfill this. This meant on no uncertain terms that further distractions would not be allowed.

He nodded, a stark, dismissive gesture. Martin stared at him for a second, and then wordlessly turned to leave.

As soon as the door slid shut, Jon let out a long sigh. 

* * *

Martin went in to visit Sasha against his better judgement. The part of him that knew very well that not all was well gripped and struggled against the part of him that remembered this was the Sasha that laughed with him, arms full of tribbles, in the transporter room. That same part of him held hope like an awful peach scented candle, hope that somewhere beneath the bitterness of his mom or the paranoia of the captain, that people were softer and kinder than they let on. 

It wasn’t like he had the authority to let her out, he supposed. If this was the friendly, undeniably human Sasha that he knew, then it was worth the risk of speaking to a monster. 

Daisy fixed him with a glare as he walked through the doors to the security bay. Or maybe it was her version of a friendly smile? He didn’t get much chance to interact with her, other than an extremely uncomfortable interrogation after his first encounter with the worms. He offered her an uneasy smile. 

She didn’t smile back, but her glare seemed to lessen. “Why’re you here, doc?” She asked.

“I’m- I need to-” Martin started, feeling himself wilt under her hard eyes, under the harsh artificial light of her desk. He took a humming breath and tried again. “I need to see Sasha.” He didn’t have an explanation, so he didn’t offer one. 

To his surprise, she just shrugged. “Sure. Can’t let her out, though.” 

He tried not to flinch as he noticed her hand on her weapon, and allowed her to lead him back to where Sasha was being held. The last time he was in here, he was offering medical treatment to Nikola Orsinov. It seemed so long ago. 

Sasha had pulled a hood over her head in an attempt to hide the crack running across it. Martin could see the glow from inside reflected faintly on the cloth. She was pacing the spartan cell. Daisy observed this briefly, blinked, and left without a word.

“Does it hurt?” He blurted, half against his own will. What kind of way to start a conversation was that? 

“Wha--! Oh. Martin.” She jumped about a foot in the air before turning to face him. There was some sad version of relief in her eyes. “No, not really. I can tell it’s there, but it would probably hurt more if I was… you know. Human. Would it be bad if I said I sort of wished that it did?”

He watched her face, his chest growing tight. Sasha looked afraid. He remembered the movie night that Tim and Sasha invited him on, the day after they all started on the  _ Magnus. _ Sasha had insisted they avoid any kind of horror or thriller, even the deep and artsy ones Martin loved.  _ “I’m not brave at all,”  _ she had insisted. His first response was to try and offer his comfort somehow.

“Did- did you know? Why didn’t you  _ say anything? _ ” He asked instead. There was no guarantee that this wasn’t an act, but by now Martin was well-acquainted with lies. 

“Of course I didn’t!” She cried, hurt and shock plain on her half-hidden face. “I remember growing up. I have scars, I- I remember bleeding! Martin, I’m  _ me _ . I was born on Earth. I’m human. I didn’t-- I don’t know what happened to me.” 

“R-right. Of course you are.” He couldn’t look at her face. “Sasha, I-”

A call from the bridge interrupted him. “All staff report immediately to the bridge.” 

* * *

This was it. This was what Tim wanted, signing up to be on this goddamn starship, what he joined Starfleet for in the first place. 

On the bridge viewscreen, looming above them like a galactic beacon was the skeleton of a familiar ship. 

_ USS Millbank  _ read the fading, flaking text on it’s side.

He remembered throwing a bottle of cheap wine at that text, standing next to Danny and Abigail Ellison, young and drunk on adventure and Earth alcohol. Looking at it now, like everything else he had the chance to remember, the fun and fondness turned bleak.

Danny’s big mission, the one to make his whole career was on the  _ Millbank. _ It was also his last mission. No one, not his asshole boss or the thing that replaced his friend was going to stop Tim from taking apart whatever killed his brother piece-by-piece. 

And it was going to  _ hurt. _

Something between determination and rage settled into his heart. HE had been comfortable for far too long. He wasn’t Martin, he knew there was no chance of everyone coming out of this investigation fine and happy. But he really should have expected having to face this alone. 

Behind him, Jon cleared his throat. Oh, right. He was talking.

“Yeah?” Tim didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“I  _ asked  _ if you wanted to lead the away team,” Jon repeated, clearly annoyed despite his usual insistence that he maintained strict control over his emotions. That had been endearing once. 

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Tim replied, his voice heavy. No reason to pretend everything was fine when the truth was obvious. 

“You, Daisy and Basira will go down while Martin and I keep things running up here.” Jon decided. Tim didn’t fail to notice that that would leave the ship without a tactical element. He considered asking about the thing that they were keeping locked up in security, but thought better of it. He clenched his fists enough to dig his nails into his palm. Chances are, he wasn’t going to be around long enough for it to matter. 

“Sure. How long are we sticking around to investigate?” 

“As long as Elias says we need to,” Jon replied, and Tim wrenched his stare from the  _ Millbank _ to look at the room. Everyone else had shown up while he was deep in thought. They were waiting for Tim to take charge.

“Daisy, bring firepower. Big firepower. And a basic investigative kit for each of us.” He looked her in the eye with his full intensity. She seemed impressed. Tim figured Klingons must get something out of the whole deadly rage thing. “We’ll do full hazard precaution. Basira, get us a copy of the crew list and schematics, inventory. We’ll take a shuttle in half an hour.” That was enough time to grab a bag, gear up and fire off a few practice shots for good measure. Jon opened his mouth to say something, but Tim shushed him.

He turned to Jon, stepping forward to exacerbate the advantage of height he had over him. “Oh, and sir? Elias can  _ fuck. Off.” _

He turned and walked off of the bridge. 

* * *

Basira may not have had much firsthand emotional experience, but she knew a compromised man when she saw one. She did not build a career in communications without an acute ability to read other people, and at this moment Tim Stoker was an open book. 

She put together the information he asked for, of course. It was procedurally what should have happened anyway. While organizing the crew manifesto, she put in a brief search. 

_ Stoker, Daniel. First Officer.  _

Things clicked into place in Basira’s head. That had to be Tim’s younger brother, there was no way around it. It was a reasonable explanation for a lot of his behavior: his cagey reaction to Jon investigating his past, his palpable anger now. 

This was some kind of poorly devised revenge mission. It was clear that while Tim would be a competent first officer (or even Captain) in most other circumstances, he had never taken on something this personal before. Basira had worked with enough teams under high pressure to know that this was going to get bad. If the alternative wasn’t so unpredictable, she would have had the Captain remove him immediately. 

Instead, she set her own phaser to stun and decided to keep a close eye on Tim. She’d bring it up to Daisy if she had the chance. 

* * *

The inside of  _ The Millbank  _ was not the bright, hopeful halls that lined Tim’s memory. The ship had long since lost power, and its shiny brand-new sheen before that. 

Of course, that was neglecting the corpses scattered throughout the ship. The sight of them brought bile to his throat and solidified the growing realization that one of these bodies would have the face of his brother. He had to fight the urge to physically check each.

“How odd,” Basira spoke behind him in her infuriatingly flat tone. “This person died smiling.” 

Tim turned to look, and sure enough, the disgusting, space-preserved face was stuck in an eternal laugh. He distantly thought of a dark joke, but kept it to itself. 

He cast his light about the hall and directed his team to move to engineering. The warp core, once proudly generating at its center, was now dark and cold. There was mess everywhere, and without the charming suggestion of order that Sasha’s engineering seemed to have, it felt more like a warzone than a workshop. Then again, maybe it was. 

Basira went over to the controls, scanning for damage and looking for a way to restore power to the ship. The warp core itself was not dead, simply shut down, by the looks of it. She was clever and would probably get it. Tim looked for signs of his brother, or what had killed him. 

Suddenly, the emergency lights flickered on, and the ship rumbled, a resurrected version of what was once the pride of Starfleet. Every inch of it, from the orange walls to the hum of it’s engine was perfectly designed to piss Tim off _. _

A voice rang out through the ship. Basira was accessing someone's logs. An old woman, her voice steady and cold.

“I have only been allotted three subjects by Elias, no doubt due to his insufferable need to cut corners. Starfleet has also decreed that I am only allowed to operate on the willing and the dying, presumably to regain a semblance of moral high-ground. I have with me a Sergei Ushankov, a nearly uselessly geriatric man, Gerard Keay, suffering from cancer, and a Sahsa James--”

Tim’s head snapped up as he felt the world fall away from him, a fuzzy, angry confusion in its place.

“What.” It was more of a demand than a question. Sasha was involved with this, too. Sasha had been on, or at least known someone, who was involved in Danny’s death. Ice from his stomach threatened to overtake the burning fury in his heart. He had trusted Sasha, cared about her, and not only had she lied and worked with the enemy, she was connected to his brother this entire time.

“It’s an old recording.” Basira’s voice cut through his thoughts. She stared into him like she was trying to neutralize the storm inside his chest by looking at it. “The computer says it’s from Gertrude Robinson, from about a year before the  _ Millbank  _ was set to leave port. She was working with the chief engineer, an Adelard Dekker.”

A thought pierced through the choking cloud in Tim’s mind. “Wait, like the Gertrude that designed the system of  _ the Magnus _ ?”

Basira gave a gesture of agreement. “There’s about 50 logs from before the day this ship left docks. Then about 30 more from its journey.” 

It took more self restraint than it should have to keep from shoving her aside to access them himself. The lights of the control panel glinted at him mockingly. Oh, how he’d love to drive his fist through something right about now. “Get me every single mention of Sasha,” he barked instead.

* * *

> “--Gerard’s procedure seems to have gone much more smoothly. I was not able this time to give him compatibility with an android form, but he has clearly retained both his memory and his cognition. He has some objections to being a hologram in a computer, but there is little to do about that. Luckily, I have more time to build a convincing body, more advanced than that of Sergei, for Sasha, whose condition is deteriorating much slower. It’s a good thing radiation can take a while to kill you. Adelard’s borg technology has proven invaluable to this process, although I have taken strict precautions to avoid any chance of subject assimilation. I intend to have my perfect mechanized human being by the end of the month. End recording.” 

Gertrude’s voice faded from the room, but it didn’t seem like Tim had noticed. Basira watched as he paced the room, raring for a confrontation that he could only solve himself. She busied herself with contacting the Captain about these findings. 

It seemed that some years ago, the android they knew as Sasha James had once been flesh and blood. She had also been dying. Gertrude Robinson offered her an out, an experiment to take her waning body and make it into hydraulics and circuitry, and she had accepted.

They didn’t leave her with a memory of the choice.

Basira bit her lip, just enough to draw blood. Enough to check. Evidence of her own flesh-and-blood existence. She still bled. 

This didn’t mean that they could trust Sasha, she decided. She was probably safe enough to continue acting as ship’s engineer, as there was no precedent for the human Sasha to be anything other than a good engineer, and Gertrude implied in her recordings that there was fundamentally no difference in the two. Still, Basira wasn’t stupid. Computers had different vulnerabilities from the fleshy mass of brains. There was a switch that could be flipped, a line of code, or a one transposed with a zero that could rewrite that humanity. She was one switch away, one button push from going from Sasha James, human being, to mindless killing machine. 

They’d have to keep a close eye on her. 

The captain took all of her advice on this without reaction on his face, but Basira could hear his emotional involvement in the way that he spoke. 

“I see. That would make Tim and myself the only people who met her while she was still…” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Basira. We can discuss her further when you return. I imagine this is not all that there is to learn about the  _ Millbank. _ Do keep me updated.” 

“Of course, sir. Basira out.” 

When she turned back to Tim and Daisy, she expected them to be much in the same position as before. Instead, she found an empty room. 

Arching an eyebrow, she prepared herself. This was going to be a problem.

* * *

At some point, Tim had heard enough. Sasha, the real one that he remembered from when they first met, was dead. She had died without saying anything, without him noticing. Dead like his brother, whose body was somewhere on this godforsaken ship. 

He drew his weapon and took off for the bridge. Behind him, he heard the security officer follow. Well, she’d better keep her mouth shut and make herself useful. He was going to find Danny.

He kicked the door open rather than letting it slide open naturally. Inside, the temperature controls had obviously been messed with. Cold bit at his face. The whole room was covered in a thick layer of ice. Ten bodies stood on the bridge. All dead. None of them were Danny. 

“Looks like someone has been playing with the environmental controls. Just let all the heat bleed away into space,” Daisy said, behind him. Probably reporting to the Captain. 

A door opened from the outer wall of the spaceship. It was wooden, vintage with a brass handle. The paint of it glowed an obnoxious yellow.

“Well, who do we have here?” a cheery female voice called, sing-song and distorted. “A human and a Klingon?”

There was what looked like a woman stepping out of the door. She was tall, taller than he thought she should be. Her nails were filed sharp, but something told Tim that there was more to her hands than that. There didn’t seem to be a place where her eyes actually focused. Tim wasted no time pointing his phaser at her. “Who are you? Michael, or whatever his name was?” 

She smiled, and it split his head and his vision like a migraine. “It isn’t here right now, human. But you could say that I’m close enough.”

“What happened on this ship?” He asked, stepping closer, standing taller. He wanted to scare her. She should be afraid.

She hummed and the warble of it hurt, made the room spin. “I can see why the Archive likes you lot! So many questions. I can show you what happened if you like.” She reached her arm out and it stretched like a smear, far further out than her arm should have been able to reach. Her fingers were too long. She held it out for a handshake. “I’m Helen.”

Behind him, Daisy let out a half-roar, a warning. He ignored her. Who cared if this was a trap? He didn’t plan to come away from this voyage. 

He reached out. “First Officer Tim Stoker.” He grasped her hand, confident. 

She squeezed back. It hurt like hell, like he was being compressed and contorted by an invisible press. Like her hands were made of a sand mold. 

He pulled back, hissing, and from behind him Daisy fired a shot. The beam of phaser energy hit Helen directly in the chest and fizzled. It broke apart into pixels like an ancient video game effect and dissipated. Helen’s headache smile grew wider. 

“Oh, that tickles!” She turned to Daisy. “You’re a rude sort of woman, aren’t you.” She advanced, and Daisy took a fighting stance. “Now, now. I’m only here to help!”

Daisy didn’t back down, even as Tim shot her a look. When Helen reached out, Daisy grabbed her arm and twisted, wrenching her with inhuman strength. 

The arm simply bent, easily warping to fit the new angle. The sharp points of her fingers gripped Daisy’s shoulder, and then Daisy was flat against the wall, gasping in pain. Her arm flopped limply at her side, dripping blood. Apparently, a fight was more interesting than Tim’s brother. 

“Hey!” he shouted. “I’m not done with you.” Helen’s head rotated around to face him, but he didn’t flinch. “Tell me about what happened to Danny, or I’ll do you worse than a stun shot.” He lifted his gun.

She just laughed. “Come back to me when you want to play nice. You’ll have plenty of fun in the meantime.” Then she turned and walked out the door where she came in. 

Tim scrambled after her, ready to hold her down if he had to. What did it matter that Daisy couldn’t do it? 

His hand passed through air where the door handle had been. In front of him was an empty wall.

What the hell was that?

* * *

Basira arrived to find Tim firing his phaser repeatedly into the wall, and Daisy bleeding out on the floor. 

It took no thought to move to Daisy first, the easiest and most immediate task of the two. She opened the emergency aid kit in her bag and did her best to slow the bleeding. Daisy was going to need immediate medical attention.

“Can you tell me what got you?” She asked, glancing over at the man cursing and spitting at the walls. 

“Monster,” Daisy muttered, and then gave a deep groan. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. 

“Sure. Okay, we need to get you back to the ship. Give me a moment.” She secured the final bandage, and then turned to approach Tim. 

“Sir. We need to get back to the ship. Retrain yourself or I’ll restrain you by force.” 

He seemed to understand. She watched as he cleared his throat, raw from the yelling, and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Whatever. Lets go.” He stormed off back in the direction of the shuttle, leaving her to carry Daisy on her own.

* * *

Martin found himself once again rushing to stop someone from bleeding out from the arm on his table. Daisy said nothing, only winced as he went through the motions of cleaning, bandaging and stitching. She refused to take anything for the pain.

Basira asked him to check with Tim as well, and Martin was glad that she did. He was sweating bullets, and running a decent fever. Martin gave him something for the inflammation, took a blood sample and some swabs, and asked that he sleep in sickbay for a bit. 

He called up to Jon to let him know. “Sickbay to Bridge.”

“Jon here, go ahead, Doct-- Martin.” 

“I’m relieving Tim of his duties for today, and I want to confine him to sickbay. Basira and Daisy are clear as long as Daisy keeps her arm still.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know yet.” Martin signed off and went into his office to run tests on the samples he took. He hoped that the crew of  _ the Millbank  _ hadn’t died of some exotic virus, that Tim had now contracted. This could just be an atypical reaction to stress, and boy did they all have a healthy dose of stressors. 

He pulled himself through the motions of research. This part he had taught himself, first while working as an assistant in labs and later by nights of nothing but reading and practice. He was probably no match for someone with an actual degree, but it was something he knew how to do. It was something he  _ could  _ do. It was leagues better than sitting and waiting on the bridge with Jon, watching his pan nervously between the camera footage of Sasha and the exterior of the  _ Millbank _ . Better than not being able to do anything about that.

The tests came up blank for any foreign molecules, organisms or compounds. By all rights, Tim should be fine. Maybe it  _ was  _ just the stress. 

He turned to check on his patient, to find an empty bed. Oh no. 

“Christ. Tim!” He shouted. He searched all of Medbay to be safe. Tim was gone. 

He made a quick call. “Security! First Officer Stoker just left Sickbay while I was in my office.” He needed to go tell Jon on the bridge. 

* * *

Sasha hadn’t seen anyone in what must have been hours. She wouldn’t have minded the quiet of the holding cell, not really, except that it was lonely. She had as much time to think as she wanted and she could only use it to consider how nice it would be for Martin to come back in. Or even Daisy, gruff and detached. Or Jon, to ask her a hundred questions she didn’t know the answers to.

Even Tim, to yell at her, with that same brokenhearted chagrin she had seen him unleash on Jon. That’s what she’d expect him to do. She’d certainly take it over the waiting in silence.

But eventually Tim did stumble in, as she sat on her uncomfortable cot to think. And he didn’t seem angry. Just sad, and hopelessly drunk.

“Oh, Sash-ah!” He said, lying down on the floor next to the field holding her in. If it were off, he could have reached in. “Help me. Help me to not give into the wild things coming into my mind,”

She carefully approached the invisible line that separated them. “Are you alright?” 

His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Sasha, please.” He looked sick, broken.

“Alright. Alright, helping is more important. Tim, how can I help you?” If she could reach for him, she would.

“I miss you, Sasha. The real Sasha. The one I lost. And Jon! The good old Jon that doesn't seem to be around anymore, the one that cared. The one that didn’t just stand and watch you like some half-Vulcan creep! And Danny! God, I- I miss him so much. That’s why I’m here, you know. The  _ Millbank… _ that was his ship. It was supposed to be the job that got him his own ship. Instead it got him killed.” 

He turned to her, looking a lot less bitter than desperate. He looked lost. 

“I used to think there was some reason. He was too reckless, I let him go too easily. But look at us! It’s luck, is all. Shit luck.” 

He mumbled something and curled up on the floor. Sweat and tears pooled on his face and Sasha would have given a lot to be able to go to him, wipe it away and comfort him properly. Instead, she listened, and muttered small, meaningless comforts. 

“I’m so sorry,” she told him, and it was true. Tim was her friend, a close friend, and her mere existence caused him pain. What could she be but sorry?

“You know what the worst part is?” He whispered, looking at her with something between sickness and longing. “I really wish you were her. I want to be selfish, and to have never have had her die. But beyond that, I wish I could have never known about it. I could be happy with the substitute.” He began to shake, giving a half-laugh, half-sob.

_...never have had her die. _

Sasha tuned out what Tim was saying to think on that. Did he mean that she was human once, as she remembered? And that she died? 

Sasha remembered something. She remembered the reactor, about to go off. Remembered the decision to stay, to fix it to save the rest of the ship. The certainty that the radiation would kill her. 

Did it? She couldn’t remember. Still, it would make sense. Sasha remembered being afraid to die. Not that she could tell Tim.

“What if I could prove to you that I’m not just a substitute? Same Sasha, different clothes.” She tried to be lighthearted, but it came out a little wrong. 

“How?”

* * *

Daisy felt the battle inside of her. She’d been to battle before. She was no stranger to fights. Somehow, still, this was worse. Her very existence called for blood. She wanted to fight and take and kill and then die. 

It started as an itch. She had calmed down after the initial fight, after Basira showed up and washed over her like a deep breath. She was bleeding, and there was that itch, but it was little more than annoying. Daisy handled annoying every day.

Then in medbay, it was worse. The craving gnawed at her, exactly like hunger, but more. Worse. Klingons needed fresh, live food, to fulfill the need to hunt. This hunger was like going days on rationed human bread. She resolved herself to some entertainment later. Virtual violence often sated the need for adrenaline, the need to see blood flow and heads roll.

It did not get better as she was discharged to return to work. Every step she took felt more and more like stalking before a strike. Her mouth was practically watering at the idea of a throat beneath her hands. Veins beneath her teeth. She felt sweat drip down her back, more sweat than walking would call for. Under her uniform her body burned. The fast-rushing blood in her boiled.

When she saw Basira in the hall, an undisturbed figure, cool in this increasing heat that was consuming her, she forced herself to turn and flee. She had legs meant for charging. She could outpace most people. 

But not Basira. Basira, who was always fast enough, smart enough to keep up. Open enough to trust her. Basira was running after her, and Daisy was struggling to push past the urge to stand and fight. To bare her teeth and go for the throat. To taste blood. 

Somewhere behind the driving need to attack, not so much a rage as a bloodlust, there was her rational thought. This wasn’t a traditional Klingon call to war, not the call of her ancestors to win in proper combat. This was something baser, something worse. She was hungry to kill _.  _ Something was wrong. She needed to think. She needed to focus. She needed to fight this. She needed to--

“Daisy?” Basira’s voice cut through her frustration. Daisy whirled around to face her, all violent grace. 

They met eyes and Daisy formed half a thought before her body made the decision and lunged forwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to be a cliffhanger, but it was getting really long, so... to be continued!


	6. Naked Sonata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A madness grips at the USS Magnus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, everyone loses a bit of their inhibition, so there is drunken-like behavior, violence, emotions, and the implications of sex. There is also a heavy reference to the coffin episode. Nothing more explicit than the cannon podcast.

> ###  “Captain’s log, Stardate 4243.4. I have the excellent news that we have discovered the whereabouts of the Starship  _ USS Millbank _ . We are now in the midst of an investigation of its journey. Unfortunately, it seems unlikely that we will find any of its captain or crew alive. My away team has come back with injuries, and it may be some time before I can send another. All current findings have been turned over to Starfleet through Admiral Elias Bouchard. We expect his return orders- wha- Martin!” 

In through the door stumbled Martin, undressed save for a sleeveless undershirt and his pants. He didn’t seem to register Jon’s presence, just moved for the sleeping setup that he sometimes used. 

Martin half-yelled as he entered the room. “And Elias! Bugger him! Elias doesn't have any business saying the things he does. I shouldn’t be frightened of him-- I’ve heard Rosie about the kind of things that go on with his, with his--” He lurched forwards.

Instinctively, Jon jumped forward out of his chair to catch him. He ended up hoisting the man up by the back of his shirt. Martin’s skin radiated a burning heat. 

“Good lord, Martin. What’s wrong with you?” Jon asked, trying to ignore that warmth against his hand. He managed to get him to the cot. This was extremely unprofessional behavior, even for an overworked and under qualified officer.

Martin blinked, as if trying to determine Jon was real. He let out a few incomprehensible words before saying, “Oh, oh. Jon.” He made a shushing noise. “There’s nothing wrong with me, silly. It’s Tim! He’s, he’s always so _grumpy_ all the time. With Tim it’s all about how _horrible_ is to be _him_ and not how hard of a time things are on you and Sasha. And he’s upset now because he thought she was pretty. That’s so stupid. He’s great and all, but he’s a _prick._ ” He laughed at that, and Jon felt the warmth from his hand move up through his arm. His head felt fuzzy. 

Martin had a nice laugh. 

The thought snuck up on him through the heady cloud of his brain. It simmered at the front of Jon’s consciousness before he properly registered what he was thinking. He shook his head to try and clear it. He needed to focus, something was wrong. 

Martin was still talking in the slurring, laughing voice. “And you, Jon! You’ve got _issues._ Like, seriously. You’re a very smart, absolutely stupid little man.” He reached his arm out, there and pressed his finger to Jon’s nose. The contact started a new blossom of heat across Jon’s face. He watched as Martin retracted his hand, but did not pull it away entirely. He stared at the pink skin of Martin’s wrist, hovering between them. It would be so easy to take his hand now. So easy to look into the mess of thoughts that Martin seemed to be having trouble keeping down.

No. That’s not what he wanted. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He had control of his emotions. 

Martin was singing now, Jon thought distantly. He tried to clear his head. They needed to break out of this, somehow.

“Martin. Something is influencing us, Martin. It-”

Martin continued to sing. His voice was unsteady and off-key, and the words weren’t pleasant, but it was lovely.

_“-With a smile, smile, smile_

_Light ‘em with your lucifer_

_and burn ‘em clean_

_Smile boys, that’s the style_

_Come on a grand adventure_

_Against a foe most vile!“_

It sat delightfully among the static in Jon’s brain. He pushed past it, and stood. “Okay. Right. Okay. You try and get some sleep. I need to find someone to help.” He wobbled his way towards the door, and Martin started to giggle. Jon felt himself lose the battle as he began to laugh himself. The door behind him slid shut, and he was laughing alone. 

The silence helped him snap out of it, and he straightened his posture to the best of his ability, and walked out with a poor mockery of composure.

* * *

“-And you bought me a coffee.” Sasha finished, remembering easily how this particular story went. They broke down into a cascade of laughter. Tim stared up at her, and she thought his face might have softened. The look in his eyes was closer to wonder than bitterness, now. Her idea of trading memories from before this whole mess had originally upset Tim, but after the first awkward round, he had certainly warmed to the idea. In fact, everything was warm, now.

He had long since opened the barrier to the cell to lie languidly on her small cot. At some point, he had taken off his shirt, and Sasha was far too far gone to be tasteful about it. He looked great, despite the sweat giving him a slight sheen. She dimly remembered saying as much, and them laughing and laughing. They needed to get drunk together more often.

“Exhibit, uh, fifteen maybe,” she began, “I remember you telling me you learned how to fence because of a vintage film.”

Tim’s lazy smile grew more mischievous. “I did! I’ll have you know, Sash, that I was an award-winner. Anything for The Princess Bride.” He clumsily gestured as if he were holding a sword. Then, he stumbled off of the cot in one tumbling motion, and fastened his arm around her waist. “Fair maiden, allow me to demonstrate.” He did a funny little motion with his eyebrows, and she snorted. 

She followed him clumsily to his quarters, hood long forgotten back in the cell. He pulled out a rapier and offered her a broomstick.

“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you,” she said, shaking it in his direction. She stumbled, but regained her footing. Her smile was painful on her face, but it hardly mattered. This was so much fun, and Tim looked…

He looked like maybe he was seeing her for the first time. She liked that look on him, she decided. She liked that she could get him to do that.

“It really is you, huh,” he whispered, breathless. “Good old Sasha. In some freaky computer body, but alive. God, I’m so glad you’re alive.” She could barely hear him, but the earnest tone of his voice made her want to wrap him in a hug. “Thank you.” He said, and he laughed. It was a resounding, proper laugh, without the bitterness he had held before.

And then louder, in melodramatic bravado he replied. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.”

Before she could react he was advancing, driving forward much faster than she would have thought his unsteady legs capable of. She backed up into the wall, and struggled to parry, laughing. The broom and sword made satisfying, ringing smacks. 

“Aha!” Tim cried, and she watched as his blinding smile grew wider. He stepped forward again and she found herself pressed up against the wall of the ship, broom and sword making an ‘x’ across her shoulders. Tim stood close to her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off of his body.

Slowly, as if giving time for her to move away, he moved even closer, his nose maybe an inch from her own. Giddily, she stared back at him through her lashes. 

“Gotcha.”

* * *

When Daisy came to, the first thing she noticed was Basira’s voice. 

“Daisy! Stop.” She wasn’t yelling so much as choking the words. Slowly, it became easier to hear over the sound of blood in her ears. There was a low snarl, whose source she hadn’t found yet. She held still, frozen, until she could hear the rough pant of her own breath and the slight stutter of Basira’s. 

Then she noticed her own form, the boiling heat under her uniform. She was on the ground, now, her knees digging into something warm and soft. Her hands-- her hands were around Basira’s throat. Against her every instinct, she pried them off, and clenched them into her shirt. For a moment, that was all she could do, rip into the uniform and listen to Basira regain her breath. Her body still pressed over Basira, locking her to the ground. The growling and snarling was from herself, and upon realizing this she was able to stop. 

Basira looked up at her, her dark eyes watering, but still holding the image of control. “Daisy. Please.” A flicker of recognition, the smallest rock amongst waves of hunger passed through her. Basira had always been grounding.

With her last ounce of strength, Daisy shoved herself off of her friend and blundered backwards into the hall. Basira struggled to rise from her wounded pile on the floor. Daisy wrenched her head away.

She had hurt Basira. She would have killed her, she knew. 

Without Basira, she wouldn't have anything left. 

She bit a roar back from behind her teeth. This couldn’t happen again. If Basira-- if anything happened--

Daisy ran. She scrambled away, unwilling to look behind her in case the bloodlust returned in full force. In case she gave into the hunger. The cargo bay had been their refuge once before, and on instinct, she found herself there again.  
  
She eyed the airlock, two heavy sealed doors between the safety of the ship and certain death. She knew what she had to do.

* * *

Jon forgot where he was going. It had seemed so important at the time, but then he had been caught up in the memory of Martin taking his hand, and well. Everything else was suddenly so much less important. 

It was too late, he knew that. Martin had called him a _stupid little man_ and he wasn’t wrong, by any stretch. He had been given the chance at something good, something nice, and he had turned away from it out of some stubborn, misguided need to feel in control. He had chosen to treat his friends like enemies, and now he failed Martin just like he had with Tim. 

He wasn’t a worthy Vulcan, but as a human he was even worse. He--no. That was unproductive. 

“I'm in control of my emotions. Control of my emotions. I am a Captain. My duty is… my duty is to…”

He kicked open the door to the cargo bay, unsure of how he got there and unwilling to care. Jon thought of physics, of steadfast laws of the universe, facts without bias that would allow him to calm down.

A broken sob came from the far end of the room. 

“Show yourself!” He called to the room. A small gasp was the only response. Cautiously, he moved over towards it. 

Daisy looked smaller than he’d ever seen her before, possibly smaller than anyone. The comparison to her usual massive stance should have been laughable. She was sniveling in a corner of the airlock, pressed up between the door and the crates inside. The way her body pressed into the glass gave Jon the impression that there was barely enough room to breathe. 

“D-daisy.” Jon stuttered, not quite sure how to react. “Daisy, can you hear me?”

Her voice came out a croak, characteristically inhuman in her curt English. “Is that? - I, I can’t -” 

“I’m here, Daisy. It’s Jon.”

“Daisy. Yeah. Daisy. That’s me,” she whispered, as if trying to hold onto it for dear life. Jon watched her whole body shudder. Her hands twitched and clenched.

“I can try to open the airlock.”

She opened her mouth and continued in a rasp, “I, I, I can't, I broke the mechanism; I - I can’t - And I can’t - _breathe_ , and -”

“Oh, God.” Jon sat down next to her, on the other side of the glass. He couldn’t think of what to do, but there was no version of this situation in his mind where he left her. His mind went to Martin, trapped in his quarters while Prentiss sieged him for days. He was done leaving people behind.

“I don’t- I was going to kill her, I- I think. I think. I could feel the blood, ca- calling for me to. I can always hear it.” She struggled to get more words out. “But- I can’t. I can’t here.”

“Are you… Are you okay?” Jon asked, tentatively.

The stare she fixed him with was full of some kind of _hunger_ that pushed his every instinct to flee. “No.”

“Sorry. Obviously. No, I just meant - Y-You sound- okay.” 

“Do I?”

“You’re talking. Not- not trying to kill me.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

They fell into a strained, painful silence. Jon found himself cursing his own abilities. He didn’t know how to address his own emotions, let alone empathize. It would take someone smooth like Tim or soft like Martin, to know what to say here. 

“Jon?” Daisy finally cut through the silence. 

Jon found himself answering immediately. “Still here.”

“Good. I- I... I want to talk.”

Jon graduated top of his class for public speaking at the academy. Talking was logical, efficient. Communication. Talking, he could do. “Okay. Ah. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t care, I just want to hear someone. Just want someone to hear me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon stated, flatly. He had to restrain himself from wincing at his own words. It was unlikely that that was the right thing to say. 

She tried to laugh, but it came out a hissing, breathy wheeze. 

“How are you feeling?” Jon tried again. 

“Scared. I, I’m scared. The pull was so strong. Not just when I was at her throat. It’s always there. Hunger was in me all my life. Telling me who to chase. How to hurt them. I just- I was able to _fight it_ before now.” She took a breath, and Jon realized she was sobbing. She couldn’t cry, not without tear ducts, but she was as close as she could get. “I thought- thought I’d... I’d ne-never see Basira again, never-” Jon watched as words failed her and she sputtered and groaned through her frustration.

She took a deep breath and started again. “But you and Basira are so good at keeping your head where you need it to be. You have that control. And maybe, maybe you can show me. When I’m out of here.” 

“I- Yeah.” Jon replied. “We can work on it together.”

“What would _you_ get out of it?” Daisy asked. It might have been bitter, but her voice was sad.

Jon felt the well-maintained level of concern break apart like floodgates. His concerns about Martin, about Tim, about his place in the world as a Vulcan and as a human had never stopped growing, he had just chosen to ignore them. Now they were returning with added fervor. 

He slumped against the wall. “I- I've spent a whole lifetime learning to hide my feelings. When I feel affection for the crew. Friendship for Tim. I’m ashamed. I thought it was safer, that way. But it’s not. Something’s happening to me, Daisy.”

She watched him with intensity, but remained silent.

“I think if, if I don’t hold onto those emotions, those people, if I don’t find some kind of _anchor,_ then I… I won’t make it back from this voyage alive.”

* * *

Basira had made it up off the floor and nearly all the way to her quarters before the effects kicked in. She acknowledged the symptoms as they began to appear. 

Fever. Sweat. Impaired sense of balance. Impaired speech. Heightened emotion. Disorientation. Impaired judgement. Decreased critical thinking. 

There was some kind of agent or disease, and it was intoxicating. That’s why Daisy had- had behaved as she did. It might also explain the behavior of Tim. She tried her comm, but there was no response. It must have already gotten to the doctor, the captain.

Her head began to spin.

Her father had taught her breathing exercises. She wanted to make him proud, all children did. She missed him.

“If something is wrong, accept and adapt, or work to change it,” she whispered to no one. To her father. He wasn’t there and he would not hear. She did her breathing exercises. Put one foot in front of the other, ignoring the tremendous effort it took. 

“Don’t panic. Don’t panic.” Breathe and hold. Center. Exhale.

“Ignore it. ignore the uh… don’t listen. Focus, think.” Breathe and hold. 

Daisy’s face entered her mind, but she ignored it. Her father had taught her her arithmetic, too. 

“Two, four, six. Six. Six times six.” Breathe and hold. 

Basira stopped walking. 

In front of her, there was a bright yellow door. It was ajar, and an unfamiliar woman was in it.

“You’re not crew,” she stated, first in Vulcan, and then again in English. “Who are you?” 

The woman hurt to look at. She felt like a hangover. “I’m a lie.” 

“Why are you here?” The words came out slurred, angry from Basira’s mouth.

“To show you what happened to _the Millbank._ ”

“Wha- This? This, this _madness_ is what killed the crew of _the Millbank?_ ” Basira blinked, no longer able to hold her stare. 

“You’re getting it! Wonderful.” 

Basira’s phaser was still at her side. She drew it. “Getting what?” 

“You’re going to die here, just like they did.” The woman laughed and laughed, and she seemed to warp and stretch and sway as she did so. 

Drunk or not, Basira was a world-renowned translator and negotiator. She knew the truth when she heard it.

“No. You’re lying.” 

The woman stopped laughing. She sounded surprised, almost impressed when she spoke. “You’re right. I--” A man came up behind her. He was just as tall and strange as she was. His hair was a painful yellow.

“Go, Helen.” He had a hand on the woman’s shoulder, despite being a distance that should not have been feasible for the gesture. Basira watched and tried to think through the cloud in her mind to understand what was going on. 

When she blinked, ‘Helen’ was gone, but the man was still there. He looked at her with something not quite like contempt or curiosity, but a mix of both.

“Now you’ve done your investigation,” he warned. “You _know._ That should be enough. Leave here, and take your Captain far away.” 

The door was gone, and so was the man.

Basira lost the battle with the woozy and sudden need for sleep.

* * *

Hours later, Sasha woke up with a strikingly sober mind. Her head throbbed, and her throat felt like she had taken the week off to join a metal band. She wasn’t in her quarters, or in her cell, she was…

In the bed next to her, shirtless and wrapped around her equally bare body was the sleeping form of Tim. Hazy memories of the day before crept from the depths of her mind.

“Oh, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this episode! Reference to Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The next Generation, The Mechanisms (the Moon Kaiser), and The Magnus Archives season 4!


	7. Symphony of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew has a crisis of trust (and several hard conversations)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a warning, here. Let me know if you think I need one!
> 
> Edit: I corrected a typo near the end.

> ### “Captain’s log, Stardate 4244.5. I believe our brush with madness has, at this point, faded for good. It’s been at least an hour since I have regained my senses, and my security officer and I both agree that it’s best if I go address the status of the rest of the crew. We have not been able to get the airlock open as of yet, but she had assured me that she will be alright as I look for our ship’s engineer. While I’m not convinced I can trust her, it seems there won’t be much of a choice.” 

Jon’s head was no longer spinning, but his gut still wrenched in what might have been pain. As the drunken feeling had pulled away from the extremities of his mind, he divulged much of his feelings, ones he wasn’t supposed to have and could never understand. How much he missed Tim and he’s endless cheer and confidence. That was the real reason he favored Sasha, the perfect buffer between the illogical crew and his scientist’s mind. 

He even told Daisy about the moment he had shared, secret and one-sided, with Martin. The one where he found out Martin loved him.At this, Daisy had thrown her head back as far as she could in her confines and laughed a proper Klingon guffaw, the kind that can make their enemy's blood run cold. “Anyone but you could see the way that guy looks at you,” she had said. “You’re nearly in a Klingon courtship. He just needs to bring out the poetry.” 

To this, Jon mentioned that Martin did in fact partake in poetry, and she began to laugh even harder. Slowly, he began to join her with a crooked smile, a small chuckle. The last of the tension had bled out with that laugh. 

She had then explained to him with no room for argument that there was clearly something in this for Jon, and that there was no point in denying whatever that something was. He still was at a loss for what that meant. 

But he did want to go to Martin. He wanted to assure him that things between them weren’t bad. He wanted to talk to his old classmates in command positions into getting Martin an actual medical degree. He wanted to keep him close. He wanted to hold his hand again.

As always, however, Jon’s obligations took precedence. Captain first, man second. His crew was unaccounted for. His security officer was trapped in an airlock by her own deranged devices. His engineer, or whatever had replaced her, was still probably in a cell. 

“I have to go, Daisy.” 

“I know. I’ll be alright, I think. For now. Don’t get yourself killed.” 

“Of course.” He left the cargo bay lights on, and kept the door open. It probably wouldn’t help.

The emergency lights of the ship were on, their red glow casting shadows down every hall. The silence of it all was deafening. 

He was about to make a general message to the crew asking for Sasha’s wearabouts when her location came to the forefront of his thoughts, suddenly obvious. She was in Tim’s quarters. Jon tried for a moment to pinpoint the logic behind this knowledge, and came up with nothing. There was no reason for him to have such certain knowledge. It was unnerving. 

He found them standing on opposite ends of Tim’s bedroom, an unknown tension hanging in the air. Tim was shirtless and had his muscled arms crossed over his chest. Sasha’s tights were by his feet. Jon found himself at a loss for words. Tim was trying to say something. He sounded raw. 

“Look--” 

“No.” Sasha’s voice broke through the air like a hurricane through a house. “No, I listened to you all night. You listen.” She glanced at Jon, as if to warn him to keep out of it. 

She took a deep breath, and Captain and First Officer both held their tongues. Then she began. “No. You had your breakdown. You had your solace. It’s my turn to be upset. When something horrible happened to me that I didn’t understand, do you want to know who on this ship came by to see if I was okay? Because it wasn’t you. _Martin_ picked up that ball, and he’s barely known me for a month. You’ve got a long way to go before you make up for that particular wound, Stoker. One sign of danger and your closest friends are now the enemy. The people that care about you are suddenly just in the way of your mission. Now who does that remind me of?”

She shot a glare in Jon’s direction, and suddenly he felt very small. It didn’t take close understanding of human emotion to know what she was implying.

“And if you’re going to pretend like last night didn’t happen, and that you still don’t believe me, I’m gone. You can put me back in the cell. But you don’t get to look for a relationship with me. Not like this. I won’t be your anything until you can be your friend. Last night was a mistake.”

Jon watched, confused as Sasha fixed her stare on Tim. “I care about you, Tim. You owe me as much of an apology as you expect from Jon. Honestly, you two deserve each other.” 

Tim seemed to crumple from the inside, his fire thoroughly doused under her onslaught. Jon felt a pang of sympathy. He tried not to meet Tim’s eyes as Sasha finally finished her tirade. 

“Sasha, I’m sorry. I-” Tim blurted, his words lacking his characteristic confidence. “I need time to think about this all. But, for the record, I am sorry. I’m on your side. Always have been. None of this is okay, and it’s probably never going to be. But the hell I’m going to do as shit a job as Jon.” 

_That’s not fair,_ Jon thought, but Sasha’s presence seemed to tone down, reducing to a simmering mix of concern and vulnerability. Jon watched in silence as they gathered themselves like the clothes they hadn't yet managed to retrieve from the floor.

“Okay, Jon. What do you need?” She finally spoke to him directly. It occurred to Jon that he had forgone his purpose to watch them argue. 

“Yes. Right. There’s an airlock breakdown in the cargo bay. Daisy is trapped inside. I I need your expertise. And I’m sorry for earlier. It was irrational of me, and I was being a poor leader.” He wanted to say so much more than the clipped apology he offered, but when he searched himself for something appropriate to say, he found nothing. It was a wonder he managed an apology at all.

“It’s been a little more than that, Jon. But you still need an engineer, so I’ll take your apology. I’ll head right down.” She looked between the two men. “You two talk.” With that she stomped out of the room, trying to keep her pride with her hair mussed. 

Jon cleared his throat. This was not going to be an easy conversation. 

* * *

If Martin never saw Jon’s face again, it’ll probably be too soon. 

He stood in front of the mirror in his quarters, giving his reflection a glare capable of lecturing him all on its own. What was he thinking? He-- in front of his captain, who happened to be one of the most attractive men Martin has ever met-- had blundered around like a drunk, insulted their boss, insulted Jon himself, and then proceeded to start singing. Martin’s only blessing was that he hadn’t managed to admit any _romantic_ feelings, but it really didn’t matter much. The damage had been done.

He pointed at the Martin in the mirror. “Screw you.” 

He recalled the flush of heat over him as he leaned into Jon for support, singing some stupid old-world tune, and how nice it had been to be so close. How nice it was to touch him. Yep. He was never going to be able to look Jon in the eyes ever again. He splashed some water on his face, a futile attempt to chase away the warm flush that was still there. 

_Serves you right for falling for him._

He looked into his own eyes, trying to move his expression down the line from desperate to determined. 

“You’re on a starship, Martin Blackwood,” he addressed himself aloud, a conversation he already made in his mind, but important enough to bear repeating. ”You’re a Medical Officer here, not a schoolboy, and if the situation calls for a distant and logical professional, then that’s what you’re going to be. Cut yourself off, be the best damn Doctor you can manage, and get immidiate transfer to the other end of the universe. You can do that.” 

His reflection said nothing, but it was good enough. He changed into a fresh outfit, the familiar blue lab coat over his issue shirt, ironed as carefully as he could manage this morning. He needed to give everyone a post-incident exam, go though some biological data from _the Millbank,_ and come up with a comprehensive report. And feed the tribble. That could keep him busy, if he put his mind to it. If he made it to the afternoon, he’d have some jam biscuits with his tea. That would have to be enough indulgences for the day.

Basira came in first, her nose buried in some document that Martin didn’t know how to read. Since the last injury from Jon, Martin had the foresight to read up on Vulcan anatomy somewhat, and was fairly confident when he ran the scans for her antibody count, hormone levels and brain activity. 

He wasn’t really expecting it when he reached for her hand to examine a scratch. Her heart rate lept, and she drew back with a sharp breath. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked, her voice icy.

“Looking at your hand?” Confusion settled low in Martin’s chest as he tried to pick up on what he’d miss. He hadn’t touched her, and there was nothing particularly inappropriate about a cursory examination. 

“Doctor, I know you’re sometimes a clumsy human, but you do realize that touching a Vulcan’s hand is an incredibly intimate gesture?” 

The world was suddenly cold and cottony, as the blood drained from Martin’s face. “What?”

“Touching bare hands for us is not so different from kissing. It’s incredibly inappropriate to do so without asking. This is something you should have been taught before being allowed to work on starships, Doctor.” Basira might have been angry, or just exasperated, but it was hard to focus on anything but the fact that he had touched _Jon’s_ hand at some point. Oh, Christ. That’s why he was so tense.

Oh, he screwed up bad.

* * *

Tim didn’t want to be there.

He wasn’t sure where he really wanted to be--maybe the warm spot next to Sasha in the bed, before he was awake enough for reality to come crashing in--but it definitely wasn’t across the room from Jon, biting the inside of his cheek and waiting for him to speak his peace. 

There wasn’t an apology in the universe that would work for this. There was nothing to say, nothing he could hear that could satisfy the fact that Tim needed Jon, and he hadn’t been there. But Sasha had asked him to try, and if he wanted to believe she’d forgive him, he had to try and forgive Jon. 

He kicked at the carpet and refused to look his old friend in the eye.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Jon started, and Tim’s eyes grew wide. What the hell did that mean? “Frankly,” Jon continued, “I don’t feel the need to repent. I made choices that hurt people, and more things happened outside of my own control. The calls I made saved the crew. I can’t… I can’t regret that.” 

This was the worst apology Tim had ever heard. 

Jon didn’t stop there. “In my line of work, in _our_ line of work, we can’t afford to feel guilt over personal tensions. However, there is nothing I regret more than losing you as a friend. I never wanted to hurt-- well, hurt _anyone_. I’m making a choice, now, and I don’t regret it. I choose to trust you. I’m asking you to trust me again, and I’m willing to do whatever it may take.” 

Jon shuffled around, and Tim lost the battle of his will against the urge to look up at him. Jon was looking at him, an unidentifiable but unmistakable _emotion_ clear across his face. “Please,” Jon added in a voice so timid and soft, Tim could hardly believe it was from him. 

They stood like that for seconds long enough to be years. Tim’s thoughts were so deeply mixed in with the weight in his chest that it was hard to decipher what his own reaction was supposed to be. 

He found himself moving across the room to gently put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. He never could resist the soft, vulnerable voice that Jon so rarely shared.

“Yeah,” He said, voice cracking. “Okay.” 

And then, after another suffocating silence, “There’s something you should know. As my friend.”

Tim started the story, the full story, about Helen, about _the Millbank,_ about Danny.

Maybe things would be okay.

* * *

Basira was trying to figure what this intel was supposed to _mean._

The notification appeared in her personal messages, in an archaic dialect of Vulcan that was likely only known to members of her graduate class. 

And from what she could tell, it was just an in-depth explanation of a symbiont vermiform lifeform, and experiments on human hosts. It went so far as to explain that humans, weaker in both body and mind than the average symbiont, would lose their consciousness and lifespan to the parasite. It listed symptoms of the combination, the formation of spots, a sensitivity to various venoms and biological compounds, changes in memory, behavior and, for some reason, eye colour. 

There was no logical explanation for something so innocuous to be sent to her in such a secretive manner, and in Basira’s experience that meant it needed to be carefully investigated. 

After an uneventful appointment with the ship’s doctor, Basira made her way to the bridge. The ship’s database had information on parasites and symbionts, and she needed to sort through the communication logs they collected from _the Millbank._ They were still anchored to the ghost ship, drifting next to it as they collected their senses and returned to the investigation at hand. 

Helen had said that it was madness, the same madness that overtook _the Magnus,_ that destroyed them. It certainly seemed to line up with the evidence, but years of working inquiries and trials told Basira that there was more to this ship. 

They received a call from Starfleet. Admiral Bouchard was on the line.

Basira sent out a message to Jon, but got no response. So he was busy, then. It was her duty as communications officer to answer in his stead.

She accepted the call. 

“Good evening, Lieutenant.” The smooth human voice came through the speaker. Elias was dressed in a vintage, non-uniform suit. It’s green velvet matched the deep green of his eyes.

“The Captain is busy,” she offered as a greeting. Basira wasn’t one for pleasantries. 

“Of course.” 

“Can I take a message?

“Maybe I just wanted to have a chat.”

“I see. Well, it’s been a pleasure.” Basira moved to disconnect the call. 

“I heard Jon’s last report on your whereabouts,” Elias continued. Something in his voice reminded Basira of a ransom demand. “You think that a disease that causes intoxication was the cause of the destruction of _the Millbank._ Gertrude Robinson’s experimental technology has been discovered there. I want you to gather all of it, especially the android, and bring it to these coordinates.” He showed her a location on a star chart. 

“Why?”

“For research and development. We’re a tense political power, you understand. We need every upper hand.”

“You want us to bring us weapons,” Basira translated through his vague speech. This didn’t sound like something Starfleet sanctioned. It definitely wasn’t something Jon would agree to. 

“If you’d like to be that way about it, yes.”

“What are our orders, exactly?” Basira asked, narrowing her eyes. She needed to have every detail for this.

It took a longer conversation than she would have liked, but Basira finally reached a satisfactory understanding of what Elias wanted. She also determined that under no circumstances she wanted to give it to him. Without further pretenses, she signed off.

The same drive to know every detail about the situation was what brought her to bring up the Starfleet record of Elias Bouchard. Something was definitely not adding up, and that meant she needed to do research. 

It was easy to find everything Jon had discovered in his paranoid episode, from his birthplace on Earth to his academy experiences. It was uneventful, average and messy human stuff. 

The thing that attracted her attention was a childhood photo of Elias Bouchard next to his father. She had the computer zoom and enhance. 

His eyes were brown.

* * *

Jon wanted nothing more than a quiet moment with a cup of Martin’s tea. He received reports from Sasha and Daisy, now safely out of the airlock and cleared for duty by Martin along with everyone else, save Jon himself. That should have granted him greater relief. Instead, his heart still sat solidly in his throat as his anxiety simmered. 

Jon hadn’t even had time to get himself looked over. Basira had burst into his quarters with a file in hand, and filled him in with the air of a general discussing the location of a spy. She may as well have been, with her mounting evidence that Elias was not who he claimed to be. Or rather, Elias was being controlled by a parasite. 

Jon didn’t get a minute to process the last disaster before a new one rolled in these days. It was exhausting, overwhelming. He hated it. He called another shipwide meeting. 

When Martin walked in, safe and sane, Jon realized how much he wanted to talk to the human. He never got to say all the things Daisy had practically ordered him to share, and now that he had made his mind up to say something, it took all of Jon’s willpower to keep from blurting everything out at the sight of a round, friendly face. 

Martin didn’t meet his eyes, not even to give him the little smile he greeted everyone else with. Instead, Jon watched with a tightness in his chest as Martin quietly sat down at the far end of the table and looked down at his tablet, all business. 

Maybe he needed space. 

Jon brought his attention back to the matter at hand. He and Basira were planning a mutiny, essentially. He needed his crew to have his back. 

Daisy and Tim agreed unconditionally, which was a relief. Jon got the sense that Daisy would follow Basira’s direction on most decisions. It was also nice to see Tim exercising his recently acquired trust. 

Sasha and Martin had more reservations. Sasha was grateful to be considered a person here, not a commodity, but she wasn’t convinced that Elias wouldn’t just send another ship, and voiced as much. If he was that desperate for a weapon, there would be more. 

Jon didn’t tell her about his own developing abilities, to see and to know things that there was no reason to know. He had told Daisy, and he told Tim, but it didn’t get any easier to say. He didn’t tell her that he was as much of a commodity as she was, by now. 

The thought made his stomach flip. 

“There’s got to be proof of Elias being a symbiont. In his history on the _Magnus_ , within starfleet command,” Basira pointed out. “If we find it and get him removed from his post, we won’t have to worry about something coming out for the _Millbank_ again. 

“Shouldn’t we destroy it?” Tim asked. “Just to be safe? The ship, the artifacts, any evidence of the weird stuff that’s happened?”

“And destroy Sasha with it?” _And myself,_ he added in his head. Destruction of themselves was not an option. He felt the recording device that had never left his pocket. A strange feeling tugged at him, and he decided he didn’t want to destroy that, either. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s up to you, Cap,” Tim offered. “Just saying, it worked on Prentiss.” 

“We are going to find that evidence,” Jon decided. “Sasha, Basira, and I will manage that. You wanted to find out as much as possible about your brother, Tim. I suggest you do that. It may be relevant.” 

Just like that, Jon found himself making the hard decisions for his crew again. The logistics of it were easy enough, but there was a growing dread in him as he considered their plot against Elias. They needed more people on their side. 

“I’m going to put in a call to the _USS Fearless.”_ He dreaded the conversation as soon as the words left his mouth. He let out a small cough, and straightened in his chair. “Okay, we have a plan. Meeting adjourned.”

As the others began to shuffle out of the room, Jon tried to step up towards Martin, to apologize, and to say, well, _something_. If he could manage it, he wanted to do tea again. It sounded like something they both needed. 

As he hopefully reached out, however, Martin turned away without acknowledging him. It hurt. Maybe this was something he was supposed to suppress. He tucked the feeling carefully away. 

* * *

Martin was nearly proud of himself. In the meeting, he hadn’t looked at Jon once, instead focusing intently on the tumultuous mix of fear and fury that he was forming about Elias. He didn’t like how his friends' lives were being treated like a scientific concept. Something to be made into an engine or a weapon. 

It made him want to put his foot in Elias’ face, actually. 

The anger made it easier to harden his heart. Jon didn’t need his soft, stupid feelings right now. And so, he was able to stomp out of the room, determined and braced for something bad to happen. He didn’t even bother Jon with his usual worrying. 

He was so focused he didn’t notice the other man in the hall. He collided with him head-on, surprised when his large stature felt dwarfed by the other’s solid form. 

“Excuse me,” he mumbled and moved to keep walking. It was a few more steps before realization hit him. No one on this ship was built like that. 

He turned around to see a tall, pale man with near-white hair and harsh blue eyes. He was in a command uniform. “Who are you?” 

The man gave him a smile that felt as empty as it did dangerous. “I’m Peter Lukas. I’m here to take over as Captain of this ship.” 

And with that, Martin watched and sputtered as the man disappeared down the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're from the US,  
> [ Happy Thanksgiving!](https://www.firstnations.org/) (The link is to a charity for Native American advocacy)


	8. A Symphony for Free Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ~~Captain~~ First Officer watches Martin fall to Peter Lukas. Is he alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Martin and Peter Lukas do go through a bit of their depression routine, here! It's much shorter than cannon, but it does come up. There's also some violence.

> “Stardate 3818.9, Record of Gertrude Robinson, regarding the android model of the late Sasha James. The installation of her personality core -the artificial approximation of her mind- is going well. I have my concerns about her going in the direction of Ushanka, and in the best interests of safety and success, I have installed a safety measure. In the event of a catastrophic error, near the center of her spine I have installed a switch just beneath the skin. When flipped, an override will enact on the personality core, and replace it with a diagnostic program. It should have access to her processing ability and her memories, but only at user commands. Her conscious thought and general motivations should be offline. Ask of the program, and it should be able to act to the best of Sasha James’ ability to meet ends. This will be useful in the event of another… incident.”

The Captain paused the recording and paced his office as he considered it. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the only affront to the otherwise quiet and unwelcoming space. He would have to do away with them. 

Captain Peter Lukas, former captain of the USS Tundra, current captain of the _USS Magnus_ , was not a fan of his recent promotion. He was having a wonderful time sailing from distant star to distant star, making a chart of entirely uninhabited worlds, with no one to bother him other than his hand-picked crew, who knew better than to come asking. But Elias, his dear husband, had been insistent. Peter was to carry out his will on this ship in the place of the poor previous captain, who apparently had some kind of mental break. Peter himself had no interest in fanfare or ceremony, and so he made plans for his ship to fly by with a cloak, beam him aboard, and continue their mission under his first officer. He could always call them back if necessary.

The crew had not taken well to his promotion, of course. While they were sickeningly loyal to one another, they had nothing but animosity for him. That was just fine by Peter. He just needed to give them a little encouragement, and he had full faith the crew would treat him as their proper captain. 

The intel Elias had offered him on the Sasha android would certainly help. Peter had met Gertrude when she was still alive, and had quite never liked the sour old bat. She had given him a look as though she were making a calculation and he was an unwanted integer she was deciding whether to remove. Still, he could not ignore her genius. The personality switch on the android would prove useful for his purposes indeed, but Peter was more interested in what Elias had promised him in exchange for this favor of his. 

He saw his face reflected in the window, against the dark of space. He blew a puff of fog and gave the Peter staring back at him a cold, empty grin.

A knock came at the door. Just the man he was looking for. 

“Come in, Doctor!” Peter’s voice was full of the hollow cheerfulness of a waitress on her final hour of her shift in a Ferengi bar. He had called for Martin earlier.

The Lukas family came from a very rare species known as the Forsaken. Peter had once been told that they were the natural predator of social creatures. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he did know what he was. He was a man of isolation. He took ahold of those that societies left behind, and ate them away. 

Martin Blackwood came in through the door, as delightfully alone as he was when he first came in. Peter could see what he was looking for in his eyes. Martin was a friendly person, sure. But under that he was so deliciously lonely. Peter made a note to thank his husband properly later. 

“Captain Lukas, sir,” Dr. Blackwood said, his nerves poorly hidden behind his professional tone. “You called for me?”

Peter turned his simile on good doctor. “Yes, Martin. I would like to give you an offer. I need some assistance, and I think you’re the best candidate to help.”

“Oh? I, uh, what do you need?” He responded, sweet and earnest. 

“Elias wants us to bring him back some things.”

Martin exhaled with a puff, apparently bracing himself. “I can’t do that, sir. I won’t risk the stuff that’s happened getting out again. Especially not with what happened to Jon.”

“I see. Well, you must understand, that is very disappointing to hear. I’m not trying to hurt anyone. It’d be a shame to see anything worse with dear Jon _._ ” 

“Is, is that a threat?” Martin said with the air of someone who had never been in much of a fight. Peter watched with amusement as he squared his shoulders and stood to his full height. Was he being challenged?

Peter let out an echoing laugh. “Of course not! I just want your help in doing some good. Think of what the technology in Miss James could do for the medical world, doctor. Think of the good we could get out of the secrets in those artifacts sitting in the First Officer’s quarters. There’s definitely experiments on Jon’s condition, there. We might even find something to help out your dear mother.” Elias had specifically instructed to use Mrs. Blackwood as incentive.

Peter couldn’t read what Martin was feeling, but he could tell that he had opened the hole in his heart. “Elias filled me in on her… situation, and your research. I did a little digging. It’s all very admirable. I hope the care home on New Devon is doing her well?”

“She’s…” Martin’s face hardened. “She’s fine. It’s really none of your business. What exactly do you need from me, sir?”

“Please, Martin. Call me Peter. Are you on board? Or do I need to have words with Elias about your history in the medical field?” He made sure to imply exactly how much of a threat he was making, this time.

He watched the emotions pass through Martin as he thought it through. This was going to be easy enough. He let out a long drag of fog, watching the way it swirled lazily around the room.

“Fine. What do you need, Peter?”

* * *

Jon had been trying to get a chance to speak to Martin for days before he finally got a chance to even see the man. The first night, he was too preoccupied with his demotion, which he called Elias about incessantly, until his superior finally answered him to tell him off. Then, Peter Lukas sent him orders that kept him far busier than he ought to be, especially with the assistance of Tim, who was now second officer and pilot. It was not unreasonable that Peter was keeping Martin equally busy. There was a lot of aftermath to handle, after all. 

But it had been just long enough that Martin’s presence, and lack thereof, started to mean more than just something he struggled to admit he missed; it now felt deeply suspicious. Jon repeatedly scolded himself for growing so mistrustful of Martin, but it became apparent that he wasn’t the only one. 

“I haven’t seen Martin in forever,” Tim had mentioned as Jon attended their regular apology lunch meet-ups. “And the last time I ran into him, he was with the new Captain. I think something’s up.” 

Jon was inclined to agree. Sasha had mentioned that Martin had asked her to look after his pet, and refused to give any reason other than ‘Peter wouldn’t like it’. Jon knew that the tribble was precious, both as a companion and a comfort for Martin. That didn’t seem like a good development. 

He realized with a start that Martin had never told him about how much he cared for the tribble. He had just known. 

Jon’s little quirk of pulling knowledge out of thin air was getting worse. At random intervals, he felt the recording device activate in his pocket, and then an entire series of memories, sometimes enough to encompass years, would flood into his thoughts. Other times, he knew exactly what his friends were thinking, certain with that unreal assurance that it was true. He tried not to think about their innermost secrets. It would probably be a violation of their newfound trust. 

He wanted to get Martin to perform some scans, maybe a psychological evaluation, but every time he entered medbay, it was empty. Sometimes it came to him without even when he restrained himself from looking, the knowledge that the cup on Martin’s desk was still steaming, and that he had come so very close. That hurt the most. 

It twisted his stomach with the same gaping emptiness as when Peter Lukas handed over the official paperwork for a command transfer. It was hard to focus on Elias’s penmanship, detailing his failures as a Captain and the concerns for his sanctity of mind when he felt so dreadfully alone. 

It took an extra session of meditation each night to keep himself from admitting to everyone he met that he was itching to hold Martin’s hand again. That he wanted to fill that void in him with that warm, loving feeling and never let go. 

Instead, he admitted to himself that it was a pleasant dream, but inconceivable in reality. Jon wasn’t a good match for anyone, that had been made abundantly clear when his grandmother attempted to arrange his betrothal. The only family that would have him was that of Georgie Barker, and well, that hadn’t really worked out. He always said and did the wrong things, and at some point, even her patience had grown thin. It was a blessing that they managed to remain friends.

The way Martin avoided him, Jon was beginning to suspect that he had said the wrong thing again. He knew well that he didn’t know much about human communication, and was clumsy even in Vulcan socialization. He probably said something utterly rude, driving in the final nail to the coffin that his cold dismissals built him. 

Jon steeled himself against this emotional train of thought. His grandmother's voice rang clearly in his memory, and he mentally repeated her words, listing logical axioms and methods of reasoning. It worked well until he got to the one called Martin’s axiom, and he had to give it up. It would do no good to Martin to dwell on him like this. 

He returned to his tasks on the bridge, processing shipwide progress reports on Daisy’s through security sweeps and Sasha’s repair work. Captain Lukas had taken over the ability to give orders, but all of the proper captain work was delegated to Jon. 

Basira entered the bridge without so much as looking up from her tablet. She was reading off some research she had been doing on Elias before Lukas had arrived. They were still formulating a plan to go against him, after all. They just had to be more careful. 

Deep in thought, Jon almost ran directly into her. She swiftly stepped to the side and let him stagger back from the near miss. 

“You okay, Jon?”

Jon considered himself for a moment. “Have you seen Martin?” 

Basira gave him a knowing look that Jon forced himself to ignore. “If you know where Lukas is, I believe that’s where Blackwood spends his time these days.”

This advice was of no actual help. Despite being the first in command, the Captain seemed to be completely adverse to interacting with anyone other than Martin, Jon included. Most orders were given via a remote message, to the point and thinly veiled with pleasantries. When he needed to make an actual appearance, the Captain called members of the crew into his office individually. It was near impossible to meet with him otherwise. 

He set his jaw and tugged his sleeves to the perfect length. He’d figure it out, somehow.

* * *

They called a meeting in Tim’s quarters. Technically, Tim asked Sasha over for drinks, who asked Daisy to bring Basira, who informed Jon of what was happening. Jon was supposed to get Martin to join. There was a quiet understanding that it wouldn’t just be a friendly night of drinks. 

Tim paced his kitchen, grabbing a bowl of snacks and a decanter of synthol. Best to have a decent pretense at a nice social evening. Honestly, he was a little proud of himself for coming up with it. If Peter Lukas seemed likely to avoid anything, it was a night of fun. 

“Computer, put on some soft jazz,” Sasha called out from behind him, and he only just kept himself from jumping a foot in the air. He wasn’t able to hold back the small twitch his shoulders gave. 

“We’re here to relax, Tim,” she said, moving over to hug him. It was short, friendly, and exactly what he needed. 

“Yeah. ‘Course,” he responded, clearing his throat. “Just gotta wait for everyone to show.”

On the table there was a half dozen chips he had gathered on the investigation. The Millbank was not just a minor exploration mission after all. He was itching to do something about it, but he had promised Sasha he’d share with the lot. 

He was also anxious to see what Basira might have come up with on Bouchard. Tim hadn’t met him more than twice, but he already hated the guy. Not only did the stuck-up bureaucrat want to take Sasha away, he was going to disrespect the hell out of everyone who died on the Millbank, Danny included, just to get a bit more powerful of a bomb. And maybe Tim needed something other than his friends to direct his anger at. If that was Elias, he was happy to let it happen. 

Daisy came in, and Tim saw her in her off-duty clothes for the first time. Rather than the traditional Klingon getup he’d see on port stations, Daisy wore a T-shirt that looked big enough to swamp even him. Jon could have probably used it as a tent. It was black, with rips that went up the sleeves. Tim had no idea if they were intentional. She wore equally oversized sweatpants. It was the first time he had ever seen a Klingon in casual wear.

“Glad you two could make it!” Tim said, keeping up the pretence of being a party host. “Drinks?”

They started up a pleasant chat, with Daisy telling ominous jokes and arguing with Basira. 

Jon arrived about 20 minutes late, with a more obvious than usual frown. “I couldn’t get Martin,” he admitted. Tim gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but Jon merely flinched away and looked crushed. He’d have to address that later.

Sasha and Tim exchanged a look. “We can fill him in later,” Sasha reassured him. “We should get down to business.” 

Basira had gone through starfleet records with the help of Sasha’s hacking. There wasn’t any helpful ‘Elias getting taken over by an alien!’ footage, but they did come up with the likely year when it happened. Early in Elias’ career there was a sudden promotion out of his ensign status to Admiral. As far as Basira made it sound, before that year Ensign Boushard was a bit of an underperforming crewman and student, so it wasn’t like he was promoted on merit. 

The assignment he had had directly beforehand was an ambassadorial ship, the USS Wright, piloted by his eventual husband, and their acting Captain, Peter Lukas. Apparently, 6% of the crew had gone missing over his stay on the ship. None of them ever turned up alive, except for Elias Bouchard. 

“Shit,” Tim murmured into his cup, before taking a big gulp of weak wine. “I knew he was bad news.” 

Daisy found the criminal records of various Trill, which spanned back to before humans even had such things as digital records. Most Trill crimes were small and handled internally--there wasn’t much use in other cultural punishments such as jail time or death when you could just find a new host. There were also very few crimes you could commit that wouldn’t be forgotten in a few hundred years. 

But there was one name in the records that had jumped out at Daisy immediately. 

Jonah Magnus. 

The very same Jonah Magnus that single handedly led exploration when Starfleet was still in its starting stage, ages ago. The one important enough to get his name plastered on a few libraries, a research institution and, well, the _Magnus_. 

He was apparently perfectly virtuous simbiont until the end of his life, when he managed to commit an impressive number of taboos all at once. After an unauthorized transfer into a human man, he sought to reconnect with his previous spouse, who then turned up dead, nothing but bones still in Magnus’ possession. By all rights a human would not have been able to hold him for long, but the body was never found, dead or otherwise.

The report said Magnus had been on the run, hopping bodies and identities as he went, ever since. 

“And you think Elias is Magnus, hiding in plain sight?” Jon asked, taking notes like an engrossed student. 

“Yeah,” Daisy said. “And I think I know why he wants the research.”

It turned out that Gertrude Robinson was sent out on the Millbank specifically to seek out the planet that was mysteriously left off of the map, the Archive. Her research was almost entirely centered around two things: memory and immortality. Daisy and Basira believed that Magnus wanted her to create some way to permanently preserve his form and centuries of knowledge.

She, too, had run into the artifacts that caused Jon’s amnesia. They used their victim as an information interface, although no one was certain how far the information could reach, or where it came from. 

According to her haunting accounts in her logs, if the victim went without recording the information for too long, they would slip into a growing exhaustion, and eventually die. 

If they used the interface too much, they would slowly lose their ability to think of anything else.

The only solution Gertrude had found with her human experiments was to sever the connection permanently. It left some rather unpleasant side effects. 

“It may… leave me forever blind. Or possibly kill me,” Jon explained. Tim was familiar with the way Jon held back his misery, just then.

“But it might not, right?” Sasha countered. “Besides, it sounds like you don’t have to consider it for a whi-” 

The door slid open, and everyone at the table startled to some extent. Tim looked at the visitor, felt his excitement rise, and then immediately crash again. 

Martin was standing there, his face grey and blank. He was slightly thinner already, and his eyes were sunken in. He looked tired, or sick. “I got your note, Jon,” he said, his voice agitated in a way that Tim had never heard from him. 

Tim glanced over to their old Captain, and saw his face, paler than any Vulcan had the right to be. 

“Yes, uh,” Jon tried to regain his composure, but it was obvious to all in the room it wasn’t working. “Are you here to join us?”

“No. You all need to stop this before Peter finds out. I know you’re only trying to do the right thing and fix the whole Elias situation, but I, I’ve got it under control. I’ll fix this, so just stop, okay?” Tim felt the flicker of determination in his words, but Martin’s face gave off no feeling. 

This wasn’t right. Tim stood up. “Yeah, okay. We’ll stop. Just… come in, would you? Have a drink.” He offered his glass as an olive branch. “I promise not to instigate any drinking games.” 

Martin didn’t seem to register the offer. “I need to get back before Peter…” 

“Before I what, Martin?” A jovial voice sounded behind Martin. A pale hand crept onto Martin’s shoulder.. 

Seeing Captain Lukas for the first time was jarring. The first thing that struck Tim was how large he was for someone who seemed to always be hiding. His face was twisted in a cheerful smile that in no way reached his grey eyes. His nose wrinkled up at how many people were in the room.

“Nothing, Peter. They just invited me in,” Martin said, quickly. 

“Well, then. I’m afraid Martin and I are a little busy at the moment, but perhaps he will join you another time,” Peter said. Tim was sure that Martin would never have another opportunity as long as Peter had something to say about it. “Why don’t you get working on that, Martin? You’ve been doing so well!” 

Martin mumbled an agreement and drifted, almost ghostlike, off to do whatever it was. Tim didn’t think that was much like Martin either. 

“Now look here.,” Peter said, without the cheer falling from his voice. “Martin and I are doing some very important work, and if you won’t respect my orders as Captain, then you should at least respect what he is doing. I know you want to see him, but interfering could jeopardize everything he’s working for. Go back to organizing Gertrude’s files, or something. I won’t ask you again.” 

Jon stood up from his chair, and Tim moved to restrain him, although he wasn’t sure he would actually want to. From their left, Daisy let out a low growl. 

“Good talk,” Peter turned, and seemed to fade out from where he was standing, leaving the room in shock. 

There was no more discussion of Elias after that. 

* * *

The more he missed Martin, the more Jon seemed to find out about him.

It was unintentional, really, but once the information started to flood in he couldn’t stop it. It was almost comforting at first. Jon got to know what he had eaten for breakfast (Usually toast with jam, or egg sandwiches), and what Martin had always wanted to name his dog (Roscoe), and that Martin liked the seaside. 

Then it had gotten altogether less pleasant. Jon found himself struggling with the knowledge that Martin never had a long term set of friends. That his mother was the cruelest person in his life, worse than even Peter. She had always been sick, but now she was dying.

He found himself knowing, one day, that Martin was dying, too. 

The knowledge left him shaking in the cafeteria, the dish in his hands dropped to the floor and forgotten. Tim had run to him, but Jon didn’t have the words to tell him what it was. 

“I think we’re too late,” was all he could say.

The first thing Jon actively tried to know, to conjure into his mind, was where Martin was. It gave him a splitting headache, and he was just about expecting nothing but a drip of green from his nose when it came to him. 

Martin was in sickbay with Sasha. It felt obvious. 

Wordlessly, he signaled for Tim to follow, and took off down the hall. 

When they got there, Sasha was lying face down on a medical table, and there was a hole in her upper back, directly on the spine. A switch lay there, just under the skin. Martin was pulling her shirt back down over it. 

Tim cleared his throat, and Martin jumped into the air, colouring just a little under the grey of his skin. It would have been endearing, or reassuring, if he didn’t look so otherwise afraid. “Christ!” He hissed. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“What were you doing to Sasha?” Tim asked, striding over. Jon was surprised to see Martin stand his ground. 

“It’s not for you to know,” Martin replied. “Please leave, Tim. Jon.” 

“He’s killing you,” Jon blurted, before he could stop himself. The lonely aura around Martin felt as uncanny as his knowledge of it’s effects. Desperation reared within him. “Please.” 

“Sure,” Martin dismissed him, bland and non-committal. It was so far from the warmth that Jon remembered from Martin’s own feelings that it chilled him to the bone. “You need to go.” 

Tim didn’t look happy to let things go, but Jon gave him a look. “Okay. We’re going.” They turned to back out of the door slowly. 

“Martin, I…” Jon tried one last time before it slid closed. “I miss you.” 

* * *

Martin found himself in his own head more often than not these days. It was something Peter was doing, that much was clear. But it was pretty impossible to get a straight answer out of the man, and it wasn’t like Martin was in the best situation to be asking questions. 

He was going to figure a way out of this, he had to. Now that Peter was underestimating him, trusting him, he could find a way to keep him from hurting anyone else. He knew Peter hurt people, knew that Elias did too. That much was obvious. His mom wasn’t really something Peter could hold over his head anymore, either. In the end, after everything he’d done to try and save her, it didn’t feel like he felt her death at all. 

It was just tiring. Numb. Like everything now. 

It had started small, just the usual depression coming around when he didn’t expect it. He thought he’d gotten past it, with the treatments. Then, he found himself unable to manage his own thoughts, adrift in a fog that seemed to cling to him, just out of sight. He had trouble remembering things. Energy failed him, even with the support of the strongest stimulants. Sleep failed him too, and he ended up lying awake and alone, wracked with a pulsing anxiety. It felt like having himself sucked out of his body the way blood might be sucked out of a vein. He didn’t doubt that this was going to be how he died. 

He was on his own, now. Jon didn’t need to be burdened with this kind of issue, Tim would never understand, and Sasha… Sasha wasn’t Sasha anymore. She followed behind him silently as he walked to meet up with Peter. His quarters were ever farther out than Martin’s. 

“Are you ready?” Peter asked, and Martin knew well by now that he didn’t actually care. “It’s time.” 

Martin nodded. He made sure to keep his eyes down. Peter expected him to look dazed, muted. The way that he felt when Peter puffed the mist around him, and he felt his energy drain away. The way he felt the nights he couldn’t sleep, and he woke up with his hair growing in white.

It was a good thing he had a lot of practice lying. 

Peter looked pleased, and turned to Sasha. She didn’t meet his eyes or move, just stared blankly into the distance. From a distance, there didn’t seem to be anything different about Sasha, but Martin had noticed the change over the last few days. She might have been able to answer any questions Sasha would know, and fix anything you asked her to, like a proper engineer, but Sasha just wasn’t in there. 

“I’d like you to distract Jonathan while we do this, Sasha. Keep him out of our way, any means necessary,” Peter ordered, and Sasha gave no indication of hearing him other than a sharp, robotic nod. “Kill him if you have to.”

Martin flinched at that. He prayed that it wasn’t noticeable. _Please be careful, Jon._ He didn’t move otherwise. 

And then, they were off, sneaking onto the USS Millbank. There was something onboard that Elias wanted, and Peter was convinced that Martin was the only one who would be able to get it. 

* * *

Jon got the knowledge that Martin intended to beam off the ship only moments before it happened. He leaped up from his chair on the bridge and dashed out the door, with no time to inform the others of this revelation. He heard the heavy sound of Daisy on his tail, but gave it no notice. 

A crash came from in front of the transporter room. Sasha was moving jerkily in front of it, pulling a heavy metal frame in front of the door with inhuman strength. When she saw him, she let go of the frame, and it clattered in place, blocking the way. 

”Jooooon!” she called, drawing out the word in a way that Sasha’s accent didn’t work. “There you are.” 

She held a fire axe over her shoulder. 

Basira and Daisy were at his side, suddenly, each with a phaser trained.

Basira spoke quietly, but with more urgency he’d ever heard in her voice. “Is that what he did to Martin?” 

“I... don’t think so. Whatever this is, it’s something else. But it’s definitely Lukas’ doing,” Jon replied, and then flinched and Sasha lunged farther forward than should have been possible, still swinging. 

Daisy fired, but missed. “Shit.”

“Joooooooon!” Sasha called again. 

“I need to get through there!” He shouted, jumping back from another swing of the axe. More phaser fire sounded. A shot landed straight in her shoulder, and should have knocked her back. Sasha did not react to being hit with the stun. 

Basira looked at Daisy, and some understanding passed between them. She began firing in rapid succession. Daisy took off at a run, and threw her body into Sasha’s, knocking her across the room and onto the floor. 

“Go!” Basira yelled. “We’ll hold her!” 

“Don’t die,” Jon ordered, before taking off towards the transporters. It took all his strength to move the obstacles Sasha had placed. 

Behind him, he heard Basira say something to Daisy. “This might be it. Didn’t think it would end like this.” 

Daisy let out a choked laugh. ”You know what, actually, I think I did.” 

The axe landed behind him with a sickening crunch as Jon finally got the door open. He didn’t look back. 

* * *

Martin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Peter had taken him back to a room at the heart of the _Millbank_ , to find… a body. 

The room itself was an expansive mess. There was scarcely room to stand, and every wall was covered in shelved, each laid out with old books, artifacts that looked to be from all over the galaxy, and instruments completely unknown to Martin. Every few feet had a recording device, like the one Jon kept with him. Pulsing lights and metal chips hung haphazardly from the ceiling. It was as if a museum had vomited.

In the center there was a chair, with a man thrown down in its seat. The body was old, but even the strange stasis the chair was keeping him in couldn’t prevent Martin from seeing the opening on his chest, giving his sternum access to the open air. Spots rained down from the corners of his temple, slowly fading. 

Martin recognized the marks of the Trill from Basira’s article. 

“Is that…?” 

“Jonah Magnus, yes.” Peter agreed. “At the center of his chest should be the object we need. I’m afraid I’m going to have to order you to retrieve it.”

Peter passed him a knife. 

“You want me to kill him,” Martin repeated, too dumbfounded to pretend obedience. 

“Yes!” Peter agreed. “We won’t be needing the body anymore, what with all of Gertrude’s notes on how to make a better one. And thanks to your Jon’s retrieval of the artifacts, we’ll have all the knowledge we need for the rest.”

Martin stared at him, holding the knife. 

“Come on, now, I don’t have all day,” Peter prodded. 

Jon appeared behind him, phaser in hand. “Let him go, Lukas.” 

Martin’s face brightened, and then immediately crashed down into a look of terror. “Captain!” 

Peter sneered. “I think you mean First Officer. _I’m_ your captain _.”_ His voice echoed, and with each word more and more smoke poured out of his mouth. Martin began to feel very weak. “You have your orders, Martin.”

Martin felt the smoke reach into him, another of Peter’s threats. He made a decision. 

“No.” 

Both Peter and Jon seemed shocked into silence, so he continued. 

“Captain Lukas, you are now relieved from duty. As acting chief Medical Officer, I judge you to be a danger to this ship, or otherwise incapacitated.” 

“Wha-” Peter started, as the stun beam hit him from behind. He collapsed, the fog around Martin clenching tighter to him. 

Jon’s face, staring from behind where Peter had just stood, was the last thing Martin saw before being pulled completely into the fog, and then into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was largely inspired by Drumbot Brian, the Star Trek Next Generation episode "Lonely Among Us" and The Magnus Archives season 4. I hope you like the references!


	9. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captain will see everything saved... or destroyed. Either way, it's time to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This is based largely on Episode 159: The Last, and that with that comes themes of grief, depression, and isolation. There is explicit mention of death and intention to die. Read carefully.

###  “Captain’s log, Stardate… oh, does it even matter? Peter Lukas has been confined to his quarters. Daisy and Basira have managed to incapacitate Sasha, and she’s back in holding. Daisy’s got some broken bones, but she’s alive. They’re alive. I’ve got that, at least. Martin...Martin is in sickbay. Tim and I are doing our best with our limited knowledge of medicine, but I don’t think it’s enough. I’m sure it’s not enough. It’s been a few hours, and he’s still getting colder. His pulse is too slow. I don’t want to lose him.”

Jon tucked the heated blanket tighter over Martin, hoping that it would help. His mood fluctuated from devastaged to furious, and back again. Tim was at the head of the hospital bed, checking on the IV. Standard treatment for hypothermia was heat, a warm cycle of intravenous fluids, and prayer, according to the manual for field medicine that all command track candidates were taught. For the first time in his life, Jon seriously considered the prayer. 

It shouldn’t have ended this way. With each creeping second it was becoming more and more clear that this was a battle that Martin Blackwood was not likely to win. Only now did it come to Jon that every stupid, irrational thought that he had pushed aside, that he was afraid of, was something that he wanted. That  _ Martin _ was something that he wanted. It wasn’t just the feeble, bumbling human part of Jon that loved Martin, but the whole of him, enveloped and overwhelmed by the feeling. Martin was a light, a culmination of warmth and kindness that stood with him through everything. He made tea, and fretted, and smiled. He sang when he was drunk. He loved Jon. It was as much a truth, a constant of his universe as the heat of the sun. 

Martin was cold. The warmth and joy that his love had given Jon withered and warped as Jon watched his heart slow. Mist formed from his lips with every machine-assisted breath. Tim’s hand was on Jon’s shoulder now, but he could hardly feel it, could hardly feel much at all except for the clench of his stomach as Peter Lukas’s effects took their hold, and took Martin away from him. 

The sickening realization struck him, as if forced into the forefront of his brain. 

_ Martin was going to die thinking he was alone.  _

All at once, Jon was aware, much too aware of the fact that Martin had given up any chance at being with him the day he agreed to work with Peter Lukas. It was brought to his immediate attention that Martin’s mother was the closest thing he had to love left, and then she had died. Martin’s act against Lukas at the end was as much a measure of saving Jon as it was a good way to die. 

The center of Jon, where the constant that was Martin anchored into his being, cracked, and then burst. The world seemed to drop away, and Jon’s limbs turned to lead, dragging him with it. He may as well have been the center of a black hole, both cavernous and heavy. It barely registered that a hoarse, inhuman noise was emanating from his chest. Some part of his brain knew Tim’s arms were around him now, but it didn’t matter.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” 

He was hard to see through the tears in Jon’s eyes, tears he didn’t even realize he was crying. Shoving past Tim, he grasped desperately for Martin’s hand, still under the blanket. There was no rush of emotion when they touched, no flooding warmth. 

A beat passed, Martin’s heart slowed. His hand was limp, and pale and cold. If he didn’t know any better, Jon would have assumed by now that Martin was already gone. But , all at once, he did know better. Suddenly, there was an absolute certainty, one that he reached for as if the fate of the world depended on it, even as he clutched at Martin’s slack hand. Martin was still in there, somewhere. A little spark of him remained, lost and alone, but alive and conscious. Conscious enough to reach. 

Jon could reach him. Maybe even tell him how he felt.

For the first time, Jon leaned into that knowledge. He held tight to it, with all his strength, and then he pulled. The black hole in his heart felt small in comparison to the feeling of knowing as much as he did now. A path opened up in his mind and he let it all in. It all reminded him so much of Martin that Jon almost collapsed in relief. 

He was not going to let Martin Blackwood die alone.

And then, all the world became fog.

* * *

Martin hyperventilated, panic coursing through him, until he realized he no longer needed to breathe. That realization was enough to shock him out of it, and left him feeling a little sad and extremely ridiculous. 

He was in a seemingly endless space, surrounded by fog. It was bone chilling, miserable. Every awful inch of the place smelled like brine and metal. Like Peter.

Slowly, painfully, bits of the events of how he got there dribbled in. There was some kind of confrontation, he thought. Maybe it had to do with his mum? Oh, but she had died. Peter was going to kill him, Martin remembered. Peter was going to kill him, and it was a good thing. 

He put his hand to his neck and felt for a pulse. His heartbeat was slow, weary. Probably on the way to stopping entirely. 

“Well,” he said aloud, to the no one that pressed so closely to him, “I guess this isn’t that bad of a way to go. It’s quiet here. Peaceful, even.” 

He sat down on the hard ground. It was rocky, but his hands had trouble finding any meaningful purchase. It was slippery, and his hands were numb with chill. It was so very cold. Martin found himself wishing he was afforded a final comfort. One last cup of tea. Maybe he could share it with…

Who? 

Martin got along with his co-workers, but he never really had friends. The closest thing he got to proper socialization was an occasional chat. There was someone, once, who he might have loved, but Martin was certain he had given that up. The faint memory of his determination was still fresh, a face obscured intentionally in the fog. He didn’t have any family, either. 

He was alone. 

It would have almost been comforting, if it didn’t make Martin feel so heavy. There wasn’t anyone to mess up in front of here. No one to try to impress.

“Really, it… it’s not so bad.”

He pulled his knees to his chest, and waited to die.

* * *

“Martin!” Jon called through the fog, trying to dispel it with the wave of his arms, the force of his voice. “ _ Martin!”  _

There was no response. The fog was Lukas’s work, Jon knew. The same knowledge told him, unhelpfully, that this was his kind’s way of feeding. To isolate the weak and the unwanted and disappear them, consuming the energy that drained from them as they inevitably gave in. Jon got the inclination that Lukas would call it mercy. 

It didn’t feel merciful to Jon, not when he wanted desperately for Martin to come back to him. He wanted to go back to that first night, over that quiet cup of tea. He wanted to tell him that, fuck it all, Jon was in love with him. God, he wanted so much. 

But if all he got was to be with him as he faded away into the fog, to hold his hand and show him how he wasn’t alone, then Jon was going to take the chance. He had already wasted his chances at everything else.

“Martin!”

“Jon?” A whisper answered, distorted, but there nonetheless. Martin sounded tired. Weak. 

“I- I’m here. I came for you.” Now that he was here, that he could be heard, Jon could barely find his voice.

There was a long, painful pause, where neither of them even breathed. “Are you real?” 

“Yes! Yes, I-I am. Can you come out?” Jon tried to sound hopeful, and not despondent. 

“No, I don’t think so. This is where I should be. It feels right.”

Jon started speaking again before Martin could even finish he thought. “Martin, don’t say that.” 

“Nothing hurts here. It’s just quiet. Even the death is gentle here.”

“This isn’t right, Martin,” Jon tried again. 

“It is, though,” Martin laughed, but there was sadness behind it. “I really loved you, you know.”

The world hit him like a blow to the gut.  _ Loved.  _ It was too late, then. He’d missed the only chance he had. The subconscious desire to undo that spread across his skin. He wanted to pull Martin into himself and embrace him, to pull him close before he could never do it again.

Suddenly Martin’s hand was in his. He was standing next to him, barely there, but still there. 

“Martin, listen,” he started, grasping at the not-quite solid hand in his, trying not to grimace at the way Martin gradually slipped away. 

“Hello, Jon,” Martin answered, empty. 

“Listen, I know you think you’re alone in the world, Martin. Maybe, well, maybe you were. But you have us now.” He tried to meet his gaze, but Martin’s eyes were like smoke. “You have me,” he added, desperate, quieter. 

“No, I don’t. Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all surviv-”

“I don’t just want to  _ survive! _ ” Jon shouted, cutting him off. “Not like this. Not while you die here.” He might be crying, now. His face was warm, and his chest  _ burned.  _

“I’m sorry,” Martin replied. It was a goodbye. 

As a final gesture, Jon pushed outwards. He grabbed that soft, warm, delicate feeling he had within him and he shoved it at Martin. He had spent so long holding it down, keeping it tucked away in a safe little corner. Now he bared it for the world to see. For Martin to see. 

Soup that smelled like home. Little touches. Cups of tea. Martin, the man who stood by him, stood by Sasha. Martin, facing off against Jane Prentiss. Martin, singing. Martin, Martin, Martin--

“Martin. Look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.” He squeezed his hand, and opened the bond as wide as it would go. A complete mindmeld.

“I see… I see you, Jon.”

The fog began to recede, and Martin stood solid in front of him. 

Jon pulled him forward into an embrace.

* * *

The first breath that Martin took burned. He was warm, so warm it hurt. Like coming into a fireplace from the snow. He waited, struggling as his body was slow to his react desire to move, and his eyes fluttered open. 

Jon was there, actually there. In a crappy doctor’s chair. Holding his hand. “Martin,” he breathed, looking relieved. There were tears on his face, and green blood dripped out of his nose. He looked at Martin with more emotion than Martin thought was even possible. 

It was too much to take. Martin’s body shook feebly, and he felt a sob push itself weakly from his throat. 

His breath broke pitifully as he spoke, the words flowing without his intention. “I… I was on my own. I was all on my own.” 

“Not anymore.” Jon’s hand was still on his. Martin remembered, fuzzy like a dream, Jon’s hand on his. He had felt loved. 

He still felt loved, he realized. He hoped it wouldn’t stop. The tender, worried feeling in him didn’t feel quite familiar, like maybe it was being pumped into his heart through a new filter. Still, feeling tender about Jon was nothing new. He lifted a trembling hand out from under the blanket to wipe at Jon’s face. 

“You’re hurt.” 

Jon smiled, a manic expression of relief, and gripped his hand. “I’m just fine.” 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a muscular body was pressed up against Martin. Tim’s voice cracked into his ear. “Shit! Martin, you’re okay. You scared us there, buddy.” An affectionate hand was rubbing at his cold-sweat soaked hair. 

“Sorry,” was all Martin could croak out in response. 

“Guess I’m not too shabby of a doctor myself, huh doc?” Tim said with a wink and a laugh. His smile was wide, but he looked shaken. “I’ve got an excellent bedside manner.” 

Martin’s face burned with his smile. “S-sure.” His whole body felt heavy. He’d been lying here for God knows how long. How was he so tired? 

In the chair next to him, Jon went slack, and for a moment, Martin’s heart jolted. But Tim just laughed. 

“Guess he finally lost out to sleep. You know he’s always denying that he needs to, the idiot.” 

Martin looked down, and sure enough, Jon was breathing shallowly, using Martin’s body as a pillow. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

Tim grabbed a blanket from a nearby med table and draped it over Jon. “He really loves you, you know.” 

Martin felt Jon’s hand, still stubbornly clenched into his. The hazy dream feeling of fondness, of familiarity, of butterflies and vulnerability came back to him. 

“Yeah. I love him too.”

* * *

It took one look at Jon standing there, barely able to keep Martin's limp body in his arms, to send Daisy straight to Basira. The fight with the thing that used to be Sasha was hard, but no one fought like Daisy. Once she figured out that she wasn’t going to break the girl’s neck it didn’t take too long to pin her to the metal frame across the door, and cuff her to it, limb by limb. After they got her into the holding cell, she had waited patiently for Jon to show. The look of panic in his eyes as he returned--she knew what it was like to feel like that. Like all that was good in the world hung on a rope, moments from snapping.

And so now she looked up at Basira, and let her treat the gash in her shoulder. She wanted to wrap the Vulcan up in her arms and her soothing presence on broken ribs. Instead, she just looked. Basira’s carefully maintained posture and brisk, perfunctory motions might have been the solid foundation that kept Daisy feeling secure, and calm, but they were also an excellent discouragement from taking her into an embrace and making Basira her own.

In Klingon culture, the structure of courtship wasn’t neat and objective, like Basira. It was rough and messy, with objects thrown through the air at men and poetry read aloud to women. As far as Daisy knew, Vulcans didn’t court at all. Their marriages were arranged by parents and agreed to by wives. If there were multiple suitors, they simply fought to the death. A light press on her bandages drew a pained hiss out of her and broke her out of her thoughts.

“What?” 

“I asked if you were alright.” Basira responded. 

“Oh. Yeah, fine.” Daisy shrugged, and winced when the tear in her shoulder shot pain though her in response. “Look, Basira--” 

“I have something for you,” Basira cut her off, her dark eyes piercing through every attempt at courage within Daisy, forming a knot in her stomach. Daisy silently chided herself at being so weak. Then again, when had she ever been able to help it?

The package Basira pressed into her hands was a small rectangle, wrapped neatly in a soft cloth. For a moment, she stared at it blankly. 

Basira spoke up again. “Are you going to open it?”

Daisy considered, and then began to gently remove the wrapping as neatly as she could. Its perfect, crisp folds came undone and fell away. Inside was a book. 

“A collection of the greatest writings of Keedra?” Daisy read aloud, confused. “Basira, this is…” 

“A poetry book. Yes, I know. I asked Blackwood about the best Klingon writers.” Basira wasn’t meeting her eyes. “I know it’s not traditional, but--”

“Yes. Sure. Of course,” Daisy interrupted, not even sure what exactly she was agreeing to, just knowing it was something she wanted. She reached gently for Basira’s hand. “We’re not a traditional pair, after all.” 

Basira hesitated, and then offered her hand. “I suppose we never were.” 

* * *

The first thing that happened when Jon awoke, hand numb in Martin’s now warm fingers, was the opening of a door. 

“Hello, Captain!” The painfully bright voice of Michael stabbed at his sensitive ears. Two people, a mess of blonde and black curls, stood in a yellow doorway. 

“Aw, Jonathan. I always knew you two kids would get there,” Helen cooed from the other.

“What? Who-” Jon sputtered, clumsily pulling his body forward to shield Martin. 

“Now, now. We’re just here to deliver a message,” Helen explained, and Micheal continued “You need to leave this quadrant immediately.” 

Jon agreed with that, of course. If the journey told him anything, it was that nothing here was safe. Still, he wasn’t sure why the strange locals, who had never spoken to him personally before, were telling him this now. “Why?” 

“If you don’t, you’ll be here forever. You’ve been feeling the effects of the Archive, haven’t you? It’s not a pretty thing to withdraw from. I doubt it would let you go easily. If you want to leave at all, it will have to be now,” Michael expositied. “We’ll keep it busy for a little while, if you like. So long as you get out, and never return.” 

Jon wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but the door was already swinging shut. “But don’t worry, dear,” Helen called as it closed. “The fun isn’t quite over yet.” 

Jon didn’t like the sound of whatever Helen considered fun. 

Martin eventually stirred, and was able to sit up. He wasn’t strong enough to walk, not yet, but he provided Tim with specific instruction of the rescue of Sasha. So long as she had orders from him, which he provided a helpful recording for, she would hold still, and the switch on the back of her could be accessed. 

Jon would have liked to oversee the procedure, but something strong and horribly emotional kept him tied to Martin’s side. He got the impression that Martin would suffer greatly without company. 

After the Martin’s general assessment of Daisy’s wounds, a shower and change of clothes for Sasha, and a quick check on the status of Peter Lukas (he was reading cheerfully in his quarters, seemingly unaffected), Jon called the whole crew together once again. 

“I have sent out all our information on Bouchard and Magnus to a trusted source. Georgie-- Yes, my friend Georgie-- She is Captain of the research ship the  _ USS Fearless _ . Her partner is a journalist. They’ve agreed to investigate for us,” Jon explained. It was good news. But that left the question of what to do about the Millbank, and everything that came with it. 

Basira was the most conflicted. “I know it’s dangerous, but surely there are good things that could come--”

Surprisingly, it was Martin that interrupted her. “Not at the price of the damage that could be done. Trust me.” His eyes were cold and hard. Basira merely accepted this.

“We could beam down all the artifacts and destroy them,” Daisy suggested. “I have plenty of firepower to do it.”

“Sounds good,” Tim agreed, his voice a low, serious thing. Since the return of Sasha, her smile weaker than ever, Jon noticed that Tim seemed to harbor a simmering rage against all that had happened to them. The violence might satisfy that, he supposed. 

In the end, that was what they decided to do.

* * *

The crew gathered on the bridge that evening, a viewscreen up. Martin sat in the Captain’s chair, where Jon insisted he rest, despite not being his chair. Martin couldn’t bring himself to complain. He was exhausted. 

In front of him drifted the image of the  _ USS Milbank _ . Inside, every collected artifact, piece of research, and box with Gertrude’s signature on it was piled haphazardly among the dead. Daisy locked on their torpedos and phaser beam. 

“Ready to fire, sir.”

Martin met Jon’s eyes, looking for doubt or reluctance. His gaze burned into Martin, steely and protective. Jon turned to Tim and nodded.

A sad smile settled on Tim’s face as he gave the order. “Fire.”

There was a second of silence, followed explosion of light that would have been beautiful if it wasn’t so violent. The ship shook from the shockwave, but Daisy continued to fire. 

_ Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom, _ went the hits, one after another.

_ Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. _ Like fireworks.

Then Daisy let out a howl; of victory or of terror, Martin wasn’t sure. Tim followed it up with a whoop, screaming out with her. 

“That’s for Danny, you sons of bitches!” He cried. 

Martin felt the urge to yell along with them bubble in his chest. “Take that!” 

The Millbank crumbled under their barrage soon enough. The rubble floated around as dust, aimless and useless. 

“It’s over,” Basira said, quietly. The hard line of her shoulders loosened slightly. 

“God, I hope so,” Sasha replied.

They watched in silence as the smoke cleared, and Martin took Jon’s hand in his. Even if it wasn’t over for them, they didn’t have to face it alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Klingons read poetry over a tea ceremony as part of courtship, where Vulcans will fight for love on their wedding day.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story so far! I can't believe it's nearly over.


	10. Encore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this (The epilogue) concluded the story of Captain's Log! There were some details I had for the AU that I never got to bring up, so you'll see them here.

> ### “Hello, USS Fearless! This is your Captain speaking on this lovely stardate. I hope we’re all ready to look into some suspicious circumstances, because it looks like Gerry’s found us a new one. Now, we will be passing by Risa on the way, and if everything goes to plan, we have a day or two for shore leave. Woohoo! Still, there are some things that need to happen. If you’re in Science, Security, or Engineering, you should have a message from me. Folks on the bridge, I’ll go to you. Anything goes wrong, I’d like to know, people! Let's make this work, and get us that vacation we all need. Georgie out.” 

Georgie shut off the comms and stood up to stretch. On her office desk was a tablet, that she picked up and activated. A hologram leaped from the screen. On it, a man’s face formed, with long, dyed-black hair, a constellation of piercings, and a series of ominous-looking tattoos. 

“Hey, Cap,” he greeted. Gerard Keay, an artifact of some horrible experiments on humans and databases. Too much man stuffed into too-little circuitry and left to the whims of the person wielding the tablet. He had joined her crew, rather reluctantly, to help with their investigation of strange occurrences, and Georgie intended to find a way of freeing him. 

“Morning, Gerry. How was your night?” 

“I’m a computer. I don’t sleep,” he grumbled in his hollow voice.

“Right. Any good cat memes, though?” She tried again.

“Well, of course there are always good cat memes.” He flicked through a few in front of her to demonstrate. “But that’s not why you’re here.”

“No, it’s not. I was wondering if--” An urgent call flashed up on her monitor. “Actually, hold that thought, I should take this.” 

The name on the call was the _USS Magnus_ . Jon’s ship. Ah, Jonathan Sims. He had stopped talking to her after their engagement was cut off, something about the shame of it all and her lack of appreciation for their culture. At least, that’s what he had said. She probably told him something a little too much about the stick up his butt and his complete unwillingness to communicate about the way he felt. That had been before his grandmother died, and she was the one sent to give him the news. They had gotten closer after that.  
  
Still, Jon was a man that rarely spoke to you without reason, and even more rare was when he called first. This was gonna be good. 

She took the call, ready to start her usual ritual of greeting him. 

“Jon. Parted from me, and never parted,” she recited by heart, barely holding back a laugh. She watched eyes widen on screen and his face turn a shade greener. Good. 

“Never and always touching and touched,” she continued. The mischievous grin was now splitting her face. That was the best part about Jon. He was endearingly easy to embarrass. 

“Yes, Georgie! Thank you. This is serious,” he interrupted her. Huh. He didn’t even go through the usual denials about their engagement. This must be important. 

“Oh. _Oh,_ shit. Sorry. What do you need?” She asked, trying to keep worry from pushing together her brow. Jon’s face was doing enough furrowing for the both of them. 

“I need you to turn out from whatever investigation you’re looking into and look at Admiral Elias Bouchard. We… I have reason to believe that he’s actually a Trill parasite called Jonah Magnus, and that he’s been using the body of Bouchard to live as he pleases. I’ll send you the evidence on a secure line.” 

Georgie took note, and was halfway through writing the name when she realized. “That’s …. Jon, that’s your boss, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, unfortunately. He’s sent us on a… unsavory mission. We’re lucky to have gotten this far alive,” Jon replied hesitantly. He wasn’t joking. Suddenly, the bags under his eyes were more prominent than they had been even on his worst nights at the Academy. His arm looked like it was bandaged. What the hell had happened? 

“Jon. What are you getting me into, here?” Georgie asked, her eyes narrowing. “How worried do I need to be?”

“I- I’ll tell you when it’s all over, Georgie. It’s not good, but I, well, I need you to trust me,” he said that with his dark, damned sincere eyes staring directly into hers. He said ‘trust’ like it was something so fragile, so tentative. Georgie may not have much of a reaction to fear, a side effect of her heritage, but she sure as hell knew what it looked like. 

“Okay, Jon. I’ll do whatever you need, as long as you let me help you. That means you have to tell me about all of this, at some point. Tim from the Academy is there too, right? Please make sure he has your back. I don’t want you to do anything stupid.”

“Since when have I done anything stu-- okay, no. Don’t answer that,” Jon replied, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Thank you, Georgie. It means a lot.” 

“Anything,” she replied. 

“Good, because you’re probably not going to like this next bit,” Jon said, and Georgie immediately did not like the way this was going, proving him correct. “I want you to get everything you learn to Melanie, have her get the word out.”

Georgie felt herself tense at the mention of her girlfriend. Melanie was capable and smart, not to mention one of the best reporters Starfleet has, but that didn’t mean Georgie wanted _both_ her best friend and her girlfriend involved in some unknown threat. “Do we really have to involve my girl, Jon?’’

After a brief pause, “Do you know of anyone better?”

“No! Of course not, I… Ugh, fine. I’ll update her as soon as you hang up.” 

“I can’t thank you enough, Georgie. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” 

“You better. Tell Tim I said ‘hi’.” 

“I will.” 

And with that, he ended the call. 

Gerry’s voice sounded from the tablet beside her. She had forgotten to turn it off, she realized with a mental slap to her wrist. 

“So… want me to start digging into Elias Bouchard?” The First Officer asked, only half playfully. 

“Yes, please. And get Sebastian and Joshua to hurry up on fixing our upper-range warp capabilities. I have a feeling this is going to take us far off course from Risa.” 

“Sure thing, Cap. I’ll give you some privacy to make that call,” he offered, and she gave him a grateful look. 

* * *

Melanie King stood outside the door to Elias Bouchard’s office. In her left hand she wielded a camera, in her right, a microphone. Her film crew came up behind her, technology already running. On the other side of the hall, the local security goons lined up to get their guy. 

“I won’t ask any questions until you’ve got ahold of him, but you better act fast,” Melanie whispered at the security team leader. “He’s a slippery one.” 

A voice sounded from the other side of the door. 

“Come in, Miss King.”

Melanie’s blood ran cold. How the hell did he know she was out there? She glanced at the leader of the security team, and then they burst in through the door. 

Despite the rush and the urgency from security, Elias’s office was quiet. The man himself sat at his desk in a dress uniform, not a greasy hair out of place. 

“I thought it was about time for our interview,” Elias told her, his voice a smooth, unbothered baritone. It pissed Melanie off as much as it unsettled her. She let out a small laugh.

“I didn’t realize you had your own arrest scheduled.” 

“No. But there is a great deal you don’t realize about me, Melanie.” He stared, and it was _creepy._ Not in the weird, sexual old man way she might have expected, but in a more instinctual, unnatural way. Like looking back into her own camera. 

The security men grabbed him by his arms and hoisted him out of the chair. His hands were cuffed behind his back with rough motions, and it knocked some of his hair just slightly out of being neatly combed. With the people he’s killed, Melanie had hoped the suit would be ruined on top of it all. 

“You’re under arrest for breaking the Trill’s high Taboo, along with murder, identity theft, fraud, and treason to Starfleet,” she told him, the rehearsed lines falling from her mouth as muscle memory. “What do you have to say?” 

“I’d like my lawyers to get a hold of my husband,” he replied, and Melanie scoffed in response. “And I’d like to talk to you about your late father, _little moth_.” He said it in a poor mimicry of her father’s language.

Melanie’s vision went red. “That’s none of your business. We’re done here, shut him up.”

The security team moved to cover his mouth with a safety-issue mask, a muzzle he couldn’t hurt himself on. He tilted his head away to speak once more. “I know more about you than you think, Melanie. Wouldn’t you like to know how he died?” He blinked, and something about his eyes caught her notice. One of his irises was completely black. It shifted back before her eyes. There were only so many species in the universe that did that.

“Shit, he’s a telepath!” She shouted, suddenly very aware of how his words were making her feel, and how he had known. “Don’t let him say anything else.” Still, she refused to turn off her camera. 

“Melanie, if you let them take me, you will let me die. There are things that I know, things that are worth more to you than you can imagine.” He was still struggling to avoid being silenced. “It’s not every Trill that gets to inhabit a half-Betazoid.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” she hissed back at him and grabbed his face to hold it still. Makeup smudged onto her palm.

He opened his mouth to speak again, only to have the muzzle slipped into place. Then, his eyes went wide and he started to struggle. 

_Guess it didn’t matter if you could see us coming Mr. Betazoid,_ she thought, pointedly. _And where you’re going, I don’t think they’ll care._

They would edit the footage to suit their needs later, anyway. The story was practically writing itself. She gave the security team a nod. That was one less scheming, crooked politician down on her watch. The fear left her slowly, replacing itself with solid satisfaction. She pulled out her communicator and made a call. 

“Georgie? Hi, love. Tell Jon he owes me a drink. We got him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll answer any questions about what I think happened to everyone after this in the comments!  
> However, I kinda wanted to leave the extended futures of everyone to the readers, so if you have your own ideas for what Jon and Martin's first date on a proper planet is like, then that's what happened.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments over these weeks! I've never had this many engaged readers before and it brings me so much joy. I'm going to miss it! Please check out my next project, The Magnus Letters, which should be debuting on Christmas eve!
> 
> Edit: It's up now! Find it here:  
> [The Magnus Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301250/chapters/69347820)

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Cormack, my wonderful editor.


End file.
